


Sheepskin

by Vermillion Jay (krolium)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gryffindor!Iceland, Hetalia Big Bang 2017, Hufflepuff!Finland, M/M, Ravenclaw!Norway, Ravenclaw!Sweden, Slytherin!Denmark, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 01:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krolium/pseuds/Vermillion%20Jay
Summary: It's 1987, and everything at Hogwarts seems perfectly normal: the Gryffindors hate Slytherin, there’s a zany new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, and the Forbidden Forest is, naturally, forbidden. Still, Ari Gunnarsson visits the Forest with his friends after dark and gets way more than he signed up for when a werewolf bites him.





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my contribution for the Hetalia Big Bang 2017! I think it turned out a bit rushed, but overall, not to bad (I hope)! I'll be posting a chapter every 12-24 hours over the next few days. Hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> I've worked with two lovely artists on this fic: @artofthero and @ninnislullaby. I don't know how to put links in a note on Ao3 (because I'm dumb), but they're both on tumblr, and those are their urls! You should definitely check them out--both of them are spectacular artists. Thank you both for working with me, it's been amazing.
> 
> Also: special thanks to @hello-friends-its-me (also on tumblr) for beta reading for me and cooperating so well!

_November 18, 1981 - Ribe, Denmark_

“What do you think, Astrid?” Mr. Andersen asked one evening over dinner. “I think we should send the boys to Durmstrang. Big school, lots of wizards, no filthy mudbloods…”

Said boys, whose names were Aksel and Berwald, both cringed — Berwald, out of sheer discomfort; Aksel, because he’d wanted to go to Hogwarts since the tender age of six, and Durmstrang was simply not an option for him.

Astrid Oxenstierna, a shrewd, stubborn, and intimidating woman that Berwald took after, seemed to notice this as she took a graceful sip from her glass of wine. “Well, Jens,” she replied as she set the glass down, meeting her husband’s gaze with her own stone-cold glare. “Durmstrang is a great school, but don’t you think we should let the boys decide? We have enough money to send them anywhere in the world, you know, and there's a brilliant school over in Japan…”

Usually, Aksel didn’t like Berwald very much, but right now, he was certainly grateful that they at least agreed on _this_. Their mother had always favored Ber for some reason or another (Aksel guessed it was because the boy was so quiet and reserved), and Berwald’s discomfort in particular had no doubt fueled that remark.

Their father looked like he was going to protest, but Aksel butt in, voice shrill and bubbling with excitement. “You’re right, Mom! We can go anywhere, and Jan Mulder is going to Hogwarts! And you went to Hogwarts when you were younger, didn't you, Mom?? I wanna be a Slytherin, just like you!”

Berwald mumbled something about Hogwarts not being such a bad school, but Aksel hadn’t failed to notice him shiver at the word _Slytherin_. Aksel rolled his eyes — Berwald always looked uncomfortable when their family talked about mudbloods and muggles. Aksel could never figure out why his brother was so sensitive. Just because it ‘wasn't fair’ that some wizards came from impure origins (Berwald's words, not his), didn't mean they weren't allowed to talk about it. The Andersen line was pureblood, through and through, and Father had taught Aksel to be proud of it.

There was silence for a few moments, and Aksel took a fierce bite out of his salmon, though he took extra care to chew with his mouth closed. Mom had been on his case about that lately.

Finally, Mr. Andersen spoke again. “We can send them anywhere, Astrid, but why wouldn’t they want the best?” And by the best, of course, he meant the school with the purest blood. That is to say, he meant Durmstrang.

Aksel, who had inherited his father's natural hyperfocus on the ‘best’ things — the best clothes, friends, and schools — begged to differ.

“Hogwarts _is_ the best, Father!” Aksel shot back, clenching his little ten-year old fists.

Berwald jerked towards him with a shocked glare. The two weren’t supposed to speak directly to their father unless he spoke to them first, and unfortunately, Aksel had a hard time remembering that sometimes.

Aksel cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir.”

Mr. Andersen sneered and gulped down his wine, gaze averted almost pompously.

His mother gave the boy a small, reassuring smile, then turned to her husband. “He’s right, you know. Slytherin’s the best.”

Mr. Andersen speared a piece of potato, furrowing his brow as he chewed and swallowed. Then, he nodded. “I guess Hogwarts is alright. Doesn’t exactly compete with Durmstrang, but it’s alright. You’re… sure they want to go there? Is their English good enough?”

“Their English is fine, Jens,” Ms. Oxenstierna insisted, almost amused by her husband’s apparent reluctance.

“Yeah, Dad, we've been learning English forever,” Aksel cut in, before putting a hand over his mouth as he realized he'd spoken out of turn again.

Before he could apologize, Ms. Oxenstierna turned to the boys. “Hey, Berwald? Didn’t you want to show Aksel something earlier?”

Aksel recognized that tone. It was only used when she wanted to shoo him and Ber away, usually because she knew that Mr. Andersen would lose his temper if they stayed.

And lord only knew what would happen if Mr. Andersen lost his temper.

 

*******

_May 17, 1982- Ålesund, Norway_

There was an owl perched on Eirik’s window sill with a letter in its beak, and he could hardly contain his own excitement. With shaky hands, he plucked the envelope from the bird and stumbled down the stairs as fast as he could, yelling, “Mum! Mum! Look what I got!”

His mom, who was doing dishes in the kitchen with the television on in the background, quickly dried her hands and whirled around, deep blue eyes meeting the letter with a shock.

She raised an eyebrow. “Eirik, where did you get that?”

“An owl just came to my window,” he replied, unable to suppress a smirk. “Do you think it’s my Hogwarts acceptance letter?”

Ms. Jensen had always known that her son was unusual, and was relieved when she’d met Gunnar, Eirik’s step-father, an Icelandic wizard who knew exactly why her son was so strange. Now that her muggle-born son was eleven, the whole family was eagerly awaiting Eirik’s Hogwarts letter.

Hogwarts, of course, because Durmstrang didn't welcome wizards like Eirik. They'd be sending their other son, Eirik's half-brother, there next year, as well.

Dishes forgotten, his mum walked over to the kitchen table and sat down, beckoning Eirik to follow her. “Why don’t we find out?”

Eirik tore open the envelope, his small skinny fingers struggling to tear a straight line, and he read the letter aloud, his exhilaration increasing with each word as he read his acceptance letter, stumbling a bit over the English (though he had studied the language extensively enough to grasp every single, beautiful word).

Just as he started reading the last line, his little brother Ari opened the door — he’d been playing outside — and noticed his brother _smiling_ , which was weird because Eirik tended not to smile much without good reason. “What’s going on?” he asked with a pout.

Eirik’s smile only grew bigger. “I got my letter!”

Ari gaped. “You’re kidding.”

“You can read it, if you’d like.” His half-brother held out the letter as Ari walked up to him and snatched it from his hands.

Though Ari wasn’t quite as good at English as Eirik was, he grasped the language well enough to understand what it meant. His eyes went wide as he spared wide-eyed glances at his brother; then, as  he started muttering the supply list under his breath, he started bouncing on the balls or guys get, a smile—half of awe, half of excitement—spread across his face. “That’s so cool!” Ari cried when he'd finished, wrapping his arms around Eirik in his excitement as he dropped the letter, letting it float carelessly to the ground.

 

*******

_September 1, 1982 - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

For the umpteenth time in his short life, Tino cursed his last name. What kind of name was _Väinämöinen,_ anyway? He’d heard all the traditional Finnish legends about noble something or other, but those were irrelevant in the wizarding world, especially to an impatient eleven year-old boy. He’d moved to Britain at age five, and whenever he met someone new, they always (always!) had a dreadful time trying to pronounce it.

Today, though, he wasn’t so concerned about pronunciation or sanity as much as order—alphabetical order, to be precise. Frankly, Professor McGonagall had been reading off her roll for ages, and she was still only on the letter ‘O’. Tino, waiting ever less patiently for the blasted letter ‘V’, had just about had it with his stupid last name.

“Oxenstierna, Berwald,” McGonagall called, and a tall blond boy walked up to the hat.

As he passed Tino, Berwald gave him a stern glare, and Tino felt like the boy’s eyes were staring into his very soul. Fortunately, the moment passed, and the boy sat down in the chair up front. The Sorting Hat paused for only a moment before proudly declaring Berwald a Ravenclaw. Again, Berwald passed Tino as he moved to sit at the table, and again, Tino felt himself shudder under his gaze.

Berwald stopped by the Slytherin table on his way, and another boy with spiky hair and a dastardly smile (was his name Anders?) teased him for being in the “nerd house” before Berwald rolled his eyes and sat next to another first-year Ravenclaws boy that Tino thought was called Eric.

That was the last Sorting that he paid attention to before his own. Finally, after ten more minutes of torture, he was called up to the hotseat (as Alfred F. Jones had dubbed it earlier). McGonagall placed the Hat on his crown, and it fell right over his face and engulfed his head.

He swore he heard Anders (was that his name?) snicker.

 _“Hmmm…”_ whispered the Sorting Hat. “ _Very courageous. Strong, stubborn, and unyielding, but… you seem to have a soft spot for your friends. Your work drive is fantastic, and your loyalty is overwhelming. You almost seem scared of disappointing people, especially those closest to you. If you don’t have a preference…”_ He trailed off.

“No, sir,” Tino whispered, because really, he’d heard good and bad things about all the Houses.

 _“In that case… I’ll put you in_ HUFFLEPUFF!”

There was applause from the Hufflepuff table, and Tino smiled as he removed the Hat and made his way to his table and his new family.

But, as he glanced back at the Ravenclaw table, he saw that Berwald’s eyes looked more disappointed than glaring, and his shoulders were noticeably slumped.

Strange. Tino resolved to talk to him the next day in class. He supposed that he’d probably be a bit less intimidating in person.

That, and… there was something about Berwald’s face when he wasn’t glaring ominously that Tino found he really liked.

It would take Tino two years to realize just how much he liked Berwald’s face, though—and even longer before he did anything about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: If you're rereading this, you've probably noticed that I changed Ari's last name to "Gunnarsson". This is actually due to a mistake in the original from my end :P. I don't think I made this clear in the prologue, so if you're curious, I'll attempt to explain it now. Ari and Eirik are half-brothers, each born to a different father. Eirik is a muggle-born, and I never mention his father, but suffice it to say his last name was "Jensen" and he died before Eirik was born. Ari's father, Gunnar Oddsson, is a powerful Icelandic pureblood When Eirik was a baby, Gunnar noticed Eirik's mother struggling with him and offered to help her. Eventually, they got married, moved to Iceland for a while and had Ari. The family moved back to northern Norway after a while for business reasons, but Ari was born in Iceland. The Icelandic patronymic system dictates that Ari would be given the last name Gunnarsson, after his father. Ari would NOT be named Ari Jensen. Hopefully, that clears up some of the confusion? If you're still confused, lemme know.


	2. Silver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by [Ro!](http://rosiethero.tumblr.com/) You can find the original image [here!](http://artofthero.tumblr.com/post/161080653818/ta-daahh-my-contribution-for-hetaliabigbang-i)

 

_September 29t_ _h_ _, 1987 (Present Day) - Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland_

Berwald’s favorite thing in the world was transfiguration. The ability to change one thing— _anything,_ be it common, boring, weird, or disgusting—into another, enchanting thing fascinated him. It kept him up at night, tinkering around with every spell he could find. Some days, he’d gather rocks to turn to beautiful gems; others, he’d chop blocks of wood to turn into shoes and back again. This evening, he’d swiped a dozen pieces of parsley at dinner, which he was determined to turn into a bouquet of roses.

The roses, of course, were for his second favorite thing in the world: Tino Väinämöinen, the sweetest boy Berwald had ever met. If anyone deserved a bouquet of enchanted parsley-roses, it was him.

He had, of course, taken a few extra bits of parsley to practice on, but those had quickly been used up. _At least,_ he thought to himself in consolation as he looked at his failed test runs, _if this fails spectacularly,_ _I’ll have a string of bleeding hearts and some green stems to give him._

But, since it was now or never, and he was reasonably sure he had caught all his previous mistakes (he had trouble speaking clearly, so difficult spells often required a few read-throughs to master), Berwald uttered the spell one last time, in that low and droning voice he always used when casting spells. His words were almost inaudible, so quiet that people tended to think he was much better at nonverbal spells than he actually was.

Actually, the real nonverbal magic expert had just snuck up behind him, looking over Berwald’s shoulder just as he finally managed to turn a strand of parsley into a long, red-petaled rose. It was missing the thorns, Berwald noticed, but that was probably to his advantage.

“I can’t say that’s not romantic,” Eirik muttered as Berwald jumped in surprise, “but why parsley? What sort of wizard would sit down thinking of potential spells, and decide, ‘oh, well, there goes the love of my life, better turn some of that parsley into roses then’?”

Berwald snorted as he dropped the rose into a jar of water, pulling out his next piece of parsley and skimming his spell book again. “Th’ sort that wants t’ impress his date at a fancy dinner?”

“And why use transfiguration, anyway? Why not just say _orchideous—_ ” here, Eirik waved his wand and a bouquet of white roses appeared at the end— “and be done with it?”

“I like transfiguration. 'S therapeutic.”

“That’s fair,” Eirik decided, turning on his feet to return to his arithmancy homework, his step aristocratic and uppity as ever.

Berwald stifled a snort. For a muggle-born, Eirik certainly presented himself with all the snobbish prestige and class of one of the pureblood wizard elite.

“Oh, and also,” he added from his desk, quill racing across the paper as gracefully as the self-writing sort that were forbidden at Hogwarts, “you should tell Tino about Alchemy. If we get two more students interested, we can actually have a class.”

Since Eirik was staring intently at his homework, Berwald had no reservations about rolling his eyes at his friend. “Why’d I be telling him about alchemy, ‘f I was professing my love for him?”

Eirik smirked. “Yes, like _that’s_ going to happen. Tomorrow morning, you two will suddenly stop being hopelessly awkward, and you’ll finally start going out.”

“Wouldn’t that be great?” Berwald mused, a dopey grin on his face as he grunted out his work again, turning another piece of parsley into a lively rose.

“Keep dreaming, Ber, keep dreaming,” Eirik muttered, shaking his head. “What happens if you finally _do_ work up the courage, though? Do you have a plan?”

“You’ll see.”

 

*******

There were few things Eirik treasured more than his beauty sleep… which was unfortunate, really. As a Ravenclaw Prefect, Eirik was expected to stay up late and keep watch, making sure no curious first-years or impudent third-years were lurking around the building late at night. And of course, since this was Ravenclaw, curious students abounded, making Eirik’s job more difficult.

Luckily, tonight seemed relatively quiet. After threatening to deduct fifty points, a rambunctious group of second-year girls finally seemed to take him seriously enough to slink off to bed, and Eirik was almost bored enough sitting alone in the dark hallway to fall asleep…

Until a familiar six-foot-four boy tripped over his own feet, landing face first right in front of him.

Eirik startled, eyes wide as he brandished his wand and muttered, _“lumos,”_ under his breath.

Under the dim light of his wand, he could finally see the offender, who looked just as shocked as Eirik himself was (not to mention embarrassed by his own klutziness).

“Berwald?” Eirik spluttered, still groggy and watery-eyed. He ran a hand across his face, stretched as he let out a roaring-lion yawn, then shook his head and did a double take. Sure enough, Berwald was still there, holding a dozen roses (now crumpled beyond use) and groping about on the floor for his glasses, which had flown off his face. “What the hell are you doing awake? Don’t make me take points from Ravenclaw, you arse. You're supposed to know better than this. I've had to threaten five students already. I honestly do not have the energy, and I _will_ take points away if you don't go back in.”

Berwald glared in his direction, a savage look in his wide eyes. “Shhh!” he whispered. “I can explain.”

Eirik raised an eyebrow, suspicious, but lowered his voice nonetheless. “What is it then? Why are you sneaking around?” He noticed that Berwald was still grappling for his glasses. Sighing in mock pretension, he stood to pick them up and handed them to Berwald.

His friend nodded in thanks, slipping glasses over his face again as he said, “gonna go hang out with Tino. ‘T’s not a date anymore, I guess.” He motioned toward the crushed roses in his hand. “Ya could come with us, make it less awkward.”

“And why on earth would I do that?” Eirik asked, too lazy to even point out the countless spells he could have used to fix Berwald’s rose problem. “Where are you going, anyway?”

Berwald wavered under Eirik's intense glare, cheeks tinged pink in The wand light. Bashful, all he managed was, “th’ Forbidden Forest.”

Eirik blinked. “The Forbidden Forest.”

“Yes?”

“Isn't that, you know—” Eirik pinched the bridge of his nose— “forbidden? Rumour has it there are werewolves out there.”

“Nope,” Berwald countered, shaking his head as he gained a bit more confidence in his argument.

“No?” Eirik shot back, incredulous.

“Other day,” he explained, “out in th’ garden, Hagrid let slip the story's a hoax t’ keep kids out.”

Eirik wasn’t convinced. “Well, whatever they're trying so hard to hide out there, it can't possibly be very romantic.”

“Tino’s always wanted t’ see a unicorn,” Berwald added.

And, suddenly, Eirik stood corrected. “I guess that'd do it. I wouldn't mind spotting a unicorn, myself.” Sure, the cost of getting caught usually outweighed any possible benefits of sneaking out at night, in his mind (which was probably why Dumbledore had appointed _him_ prefect, and not, say, Feliciano). But, that didn't mean that he didn't have the same curious, inquiry-prone side as the rest of the Ravenclaws. Unicorns were fascinating, and any chance to spot one was more than worth any consequences. “Okay, fine, I’ll go with you,” he relented.

Berwald smiled.

“But!” Eirik tacked on, emphasizing guys word with the pointed wag of his index finger, “if anyone catches us, I was trying to catch you two wandering because _I’m doing my job_ , right?”

He nodded. “Got it.”

“And there’s no way I’m volunteering to be third wheel to you and Tino. We’re taking Ari.”  
This seemed fair to Berwald, who nodded again and said, “sounds good t’me,” and then they were off.

 

*******

“I can’t believe we're out here,” Ari hissed as they walked across the grounds, voice lowered so as not to rouse Hagrid as they passed by his garden. “This is entirely against the rules!”

“Oh come off it, Ari,” Eirik replied, not quite whispering but still rather quiet. He ruffled his little brother's hair, knowing it would embarrass the boy. “You’re a Gryffindor. Aren’t you supposed to be reckless and daring?”

“Yeah, but I’m not stupid,” he shot back, swing Eirik's hand away, “and I'm not two years old, either,  so quit coddling me!” He side-eyed Berwald, sniffing at him disdainfully as he added, “just to be clear, if we get caught, this is _your fault_ , Berwald.”

They'd already been through this thrice, so Berwald just shrugged. “Alright.”

They were about fifty metres from Hagrid’s hut at this point, so Ari finally spoke at a normal volume when he continued. “And if you lied and there really are werewolves, that’s also _your fault_.”

Berwald shrugged again. “Alright.”

“And if-”

Tino interrupted, an amused but not unkind smile on his face. “Hey, no need to beat up on Berwald, Ari. Lighten up. Even if there are werewolves, and I honestly don't believe there are, we’re some of the best wizards in the school. We can take them on.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ari scoffed, “you’re a Magical Creatures expert.”

“And you’re a DADA expert. And Eirik is good at everything.”

Ari rolled his eyes at that, but didn't disagree.

Resting a gentle hand on Ari’s shoulder, Tino kept speaking. “This’ll be a cinch. We’ll try to find the unicorn for half an hour, an hour tops, and if it doesn’t work, then we’ll go back in and get some sleep. That alright with you?”

Ari deadpanned, and looked like he was going to protest, but, defeated, and perhaps a bit curious as well, he relented. “Fine.”

Finally, they'd reached the edge of the first, and they were all staring at it in all its forbidden beauty. The leaves were barely starting to wrinkle in the early-autumn air, flitting in on themselves like raisins in the late night sky.

Tino broke the silence, nudging Ari and asking, “Isn’t this exciting?”

Ari couldn't help but nod, admiring the mysterious wood that lay ahead. “Yeah, okay, I guess it’s a little bit exciting.”

“See?” Eirik said, already walking on ahead. “That’s the spirit. Now, what are you all waiting for? I thought we were on a unicorn hunt.”

That was all the other three needed, following Eirik into the Forbidden Forest, their path lit only by the weak glue or their wands and the full moon shining down from above.

 

*******

Unicorn spotting was, unfortunately, not as easy as Tino had made it sound. He'd picked up a few tips and tricks in class and from studying in the library, but unicorns were nigh impossible to find on a good day, much more so when the moon was quickly distorting behind the clouds and a thick misty fog fell across the forest floor, dampening everyone's hair and clothing.

“Okay,” Ari snarked as Eirik stifled a yawn behind him, “it’s been _at least_ half an hour, and who’d’ve thought? No unicorns. Now, could we please get the hell out of here? I need to sleep at some point, and Michelle can only cover for me for so long.”

“You can go back if you’d like,” Tino replied, running a hand through his hair, which was getting frizzy in the humidity. “I think I’ll stay out a bit longer. The rain feels nice.”

“Me too,” Berwald said abruptly, notably turning away from Tino like he was embarrassed.

Eirik smiled at Ari, a vicious glint in his eyes, which looked almost black in the dark. “Looks like it's just you and me, _lillebror.”_

“Y'know what, I think I'll go back alone.”

“Are you sure?” Eirik asked, feigning bemusement. “Don't you need your big brother to hold your hand?”

“Gross, go away.” Ari turned on his heels, walking back towards the vague outline of Hogwarts as he heard Eirik start to gossip about him in the distance, voice echoing through the woods.

“Bastards, all of them,” Ari grumbled as he fell out of earshot, and he would've kept griping had he not heard a rustle in the brush nearby.

He turned. Nothing.

Suspiciously, he took a few more cautious steps, but the rustling returned. And did that sound like bones snapping from behind the brush?

Ari stopped in his tracks, crying _“lumos!”_ as he pointed his wand toward the noise. Blood stained the amber leaves, and an unidentifiable carcass lay mailed in front of him. He heard a low growl from behind the bushes, barely audible over the rustling of the leaves, but growing louder as the bone-snapping sound halted.

A sniff. Then, suddenly, a roar. A wolf—no, a _were_ wolf; Ari could tell by the muzzle and the elongated limbs—jumped out in front of Ari, looking hungry. The other carcass seemed completely uninteresting to him, like he'd killed it for sport, but Ari? The werewolf looked at Ari like he was a three-course meal at a five-star restaurant, like Ari was a pig, already dead and gutted, being spit-roasted over a fire.

The wolf lurched forward ferociously, snapping at Ari’s leg, and in his panic, he barely had time to yell, _“Impedimenta!”_ and blow the werewolf back about 15 metres before running back towards his friends.

 _“Eirik!”_ he yelped with what little breath he could manage. _“Werewolf!”_

 

*******

_“Eirik...”_ a voice called in the distance, stealing Eirik. _“Werewolf….”_

Eirik almost dropped his wand. “That's Ari.”

Tino, who had been laughing not ten seconds earlier, murmured, “Merlin,” under his breath,  face slack-jawed and pale.

Berwald nudged them both, forcing them to focus, and pointed past Eirik's left ear. “Think 't came from that way. C’mon.”

The sounds didn't get any less distressed as they grew closer, hearing Ari’s distinct cusswords and spellwork muddled with the occasional lupine growl.

Ari was just within eyeshot, a greyish black figure in the fog whose face was illuminated by the light of his wand, when he let out an awful screech of pure agony. Under his outstretched hand, under his incandescent wand, Ari’s eyes were screwed shut, stressed creases wearing deep between his brows, and his teeth clenched tight as he threw his head back in pain.

Eirik’s blood ran cold. “Ari!” he cried, darting up to the boy and muttering whatever violent curses came to mind, shooting flames at the werewolf until it gave a painful howl, one paw limping as it retreated into the depths of the forest.

“Ari?” he repeated, turning back to his brother. Tino and Berwald had caught up to him, and Berwald was kneeling down next to Ari as Tino started examining him for injuries.

“Yeah?” Ari rasped, panting from exertion and trying his damnedest not to tear up.

Eirik crouched down beside his brother, worrying a have through the younger boy's hair, which had dirt and twigs stuck in it. “Are you alright?” he asked.

Ari didn't reply.

“Merlin,” Tino gasped as he found a deep wound on the boy's right calf, just below the joint of his knee. “Ari, is that a bite?”

Ari muffled a sob behind his sleeve. “Yes.”

“'S that mean?” Berwald asked. “That bad?”

“Yes, it's deadly,” Tino answered, his eyes darting about in panic, searching in vain for a simple solution. “We need to get him back and put silver and dittany on that wound. I think I've got both of those in my dorm.”

“And then he gets better?” Eirik asked.

“Well, yes and no. He'll live, but…” Tino trailed off, biting his lip.

“But what?” Normally, Eirik would have been able to give an answer straightaway, likely photographically memorized from his textbook, but in his panic, the information was bogged down and clouded by fear and useless medical information—or perhaps just denial. _Werewolves. What do werewolves do?_

Ari still remembered, but he seemed hesitant to explain, tears finally overflowing the brim and streaking down his cheeks. “Eirik,” he said quietly, “if I get out of this alive, I'll turn into a werewolf. I- I can't do this. You can't do it. Just let me die out here.”

“Ari, you know we can't do that,” Tino responded instantly, tugging Berwald's sleeve and motioning for him to lift Ari up.

Berwald grunted in agreement, hoisting Ari over his shoulder and telling a stunned Eirik that they had to get going quickly.

The walk back to the castle was punctuated only by Ari's small whimpers and hapless hyperventilating as the poison seared through his blood. Since Tino had the dittany, they stationed themselves (as quietly as possible) outside the barrels lining the Hufflepuff common room.

Only Tino went inside—otherwise, they rushed causing a fuss. The other three waited outside in terse silence. He must've been in there for less than five minutes, but it felt like hours. Ari was clinging desperately to his consciousness by the time Tino returned. A phial labeled ‘Essence of Dittany’ was in his right hand; a long silver chain was coiled in his left.

Tino performed the procedure quickly, sealing the wound with dittany; its medical properties caused the bite to scab then scar over, growing faint, shiny and bruised magenta like an old burn mark.

When he was finally done, it was nearly dawn, and Ari had long since given up on his brave face, cheeks staked unabashedly with tears that had worn his eyes puffy and bloodshot. As the pain subsided and his breathing evened, he calmed down just enough to let out a yawn and ask, “so what exactly happens now?”

“We'll figure it out tomorrow—or later today, I guess,” Eirik replied, stealing Ari's yawn and stretching his back. “For now,” he added, voice starting to sound groggy, “we all need sleep, you must of all. Let's meet in the library tomorrow afternoon, alright?”

Everyone seemed to think that was alright, so they each exchanged awkward, tired, and overwhelmed goodnights and marched their separate ways to bed, trying not to think too hard about what has just happened.

Ari Gunnarsson—one of the most popular wizards in his year, Gryffindor seeker and prefect, smart like his brother but cooler and more sociable like a Gryffindor should be, undoubtedly destined for success—had just become a monster.

It was impossible. It was crazy. It only sank in completely when Ari (still exhausted) walked up the final flight of to boy's dormitory, high up in the Gryffindor Tower.

He was dangerous. He was a monster.

How could this happen to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, since I forgot to say it earlier: the characterization of Aksel (Denmark) you saw last chapter is NOT the same characterization you'll see throughout the story. That's just him being an impudent preteen raised by a bad family :) He will be relatively in-character (if I did my job right) later on! Thanks for all the kudos and comments; I'll see you all later with another installment!


	3. Wolfsbane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next installment. This one's sorta short :/ In my defense, the next one will be much more intense AND you'll finally see some DenNor

_ September 30 _ _ th _ _ , 1987 - Fifth year boys’ dormitory, Gryffindor Tower, Hogwarts; 3:18PM _

Needless to say, Ari skipped his classes the next day. It was the first time he'd ever called in sick, and it quickly caught the attention of the others in his year.

“Are you sure you haven’t been hexed?” Leon, one of the Gryffindors in his year, asked gently, thick brows furrowed in concern as he lay his worn rucksack down next to his bed. “This looks worse than a migraine.”

“Positive,” Ari replied, though he could still feel the cold sweat on his pallid face and clammy hands. “Actually, I'm starting to feel a little better now.  Might even be able to make astronomy tonight. Can I see your notes and assignments?”

“I’d be offended if you didn't—I made extra copies of, like, all my notes, since you're so stodgy about your grades,” Leon said with a shrug, slumping down on his bed and fishing through his bag for all his work. Ari was too shocked that his friend (who tended not to pay much attention in class on a good day) had written down notes for him to speak properly, so Leon went on. “Snape is vicious as ever. Do you know how long he said to make our essays?”

“I can imagine. Can't believe I missed class with OWLs coming up this spring,” Ari grumbled, thanking Leon for the notes as he hefted himself upright with some difficulty, grabbing the notes and placing them on his nightstand. “You'd better go do your homework, then. I might nod off again. Let Jones know I won't be practicing this afternoon—I'd probably fall off my broom.”

Leon scoffed. “Heh, he'll love that. We've only got, like, three weeks until our game against Slytherin, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“Don’t worry,” Ari sighed, “I haven’t. And with Charlie as Seeker again, we’ve got a real shot…. They’ll live, though. They don’t really need me, anyway. I’m just a Chaser. If they’re really in a pinch, they can just sub you in.”

“And then we’d lose, because I can’t fly half as fast as you can.”

“Because you’d get distracted by Michelle, more like.”

Leon rolled his eyes. “Shut it.”

“Oh, that would be brilliant,” Ari went on sardonically, ignoring Leon entirely (his headache was subsiding, the more he distracted he got; so, of course, he aimed to distract himself further). “Can you imagine? Your eyes would meet hers, they’d lock all romantic-like, and then-  _ bam! _ Bludger to the head!”

“Don’t you have homework to do?” Leon asked, face almost as crimson as the dormitory’s decor.

Ari glanced down at his watch—a gift of Eirik’s—and jerked upright, clutching the bedpost to keep himself from slumping back over. “You’re right!” he yelped, trying to sound as not-suspicious as he could. “I should go to the library to get started on it, then!”

“Are you sure? It looks like you’re barely standing.”

Waving a dismissive hand in Leon’s direction, Ari grabbed his own backpack and ran as fast as he could (much more slowly than usual) out of the room, setting off for the library. His hair and skin were damp with cold sweat, and he shivered as he jogged down the stairs and out of the Tower.

He barely heard his best friend behind him, calling out, “but wait! You forgot your notes!”

  *******

“Sorry I’m late!” was all Ari could manage before his legs gave out.

It had taken all his strength to reach the library. In retrospect, he should probably have slowed down a little bit, but he had been over half an hour late, and his brother and friends would no doubt be worried or suspicious (or both).

Luckily, Berwald was sitting less than a foot away from where Ari had stood, so he managed to catch him before he cracked his skull on the hardwood table. “Y’ okay?” he asked as he helped the younger boy into his seat next to his brother.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ari panted as he laid his arms on the table, cradling his head in them like it was simply too much effort for his neck to hold it up. “Just fine.”

“You look like you went three rounds with a dementor,” Eirik quipped, sounding callous, but Ari could sense his brother’s care in the gentle hand that ran up and down his back. Though Eirik’s words were rarely comforting (when Ari was in a good mood, Eirik tried to embarrass him, and when Ari was in a bad mood, Eirik got sassy), he could tell all the same that his brother still cared—he just showed it in a peculiar manner.

Ari scoffed. “Kind of feels like it, too. I couldn’t sleep last night. Something about feeling my body rearrange itself overnight,  _ in addition to _ realizing my entire future is gone, did me in. No way around it, Eirik: this is awful.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here right now, isn’t it?” Tino cut in, trying to sound peppy and failing miserably, a false smile at his lips. “We’re trying to make it suck as little as possible.”

“And the research on that is going…?”

“Not so bad, actually,  _ lillebror _ ,” Eirik answered, ruffling a hand through Ari’s hair, then letting it fall onto the boy’s right arm, giving it a consoling squeeze just above the elbow. “We managed to get quite a bit of information on werewolves while you were asleep in your room, as well as a couple possible courses of action.”

“Just one, actually,” Berwald corrected, shaking his head.

Eirik rolled his eyes. “Two. Definitely two. One of them is just… more controversial than the other.”

Oh, that sounded promising.

Berwald and Eirik both glared at Tino, expecting him to take a side. Tino bit his lip, looking down at the many textbooks that lay on the table in front of him. Ari took the opportunity to steal a glance at those as well, noting a bunch of warning signs and scary werewolf pictures as he skimmed the pages.

Finally, Tino took a deep breath and decided, “well, I guess it can’t hurt to at least  _ tell _ you about both the options. Which would you like to hear first: the easy but ineffective one, or the excruciatingly difficult but highly-effective one?”

Ari considered this. “Let’s try the easy solution first, I suppose.”

Berwald nodded. “Well, th’ Forbidden Forest is too close t’ th’ school for everyone’s safety, and y’could get caught if you go out there, so we’d have t’ find a more secure place. Shrieking Shack down at Hogsmeade might work—been hearin’ about a secret passageway down there through the Whompin’ Willow that’d be less risky.”

“So…” Ari retorted, affronted, “you’re suggesting that we don’t do anything to stop this, and I hole up somewhere I can- er, wolf out, I guess… in peace?”

“Yes?” Berwald replied.

Ari buried his face in his arms, letting out a low groan. “Amazing,” he tried to say, but the cloth of his sleeves got in the way.

“Or,” Eirik butt in enticingly.

Ari looked up at his brother. “Or?”

Eirik smirked. “About ten years ago, a potioneer called Damocles invented Wolfsbane Potion. It doesn’t keep werewolves from turning on a full moon, but it removes the danger of it, leaving you in your right mind when you do turn.”

“And the drawback?” Ari asked, because he knew it was coming.

“The potion is extremely difficult to concoct,” Eirik continued, cocky smile faltering slightly. “Even if we did manage to get our hands on the recipe, it would take an expert potion-maker to create the potion properly.”

“Y’ forgot the best part,” Berwald said, deadpan.

Eirik frowned. “Fine, fine. If we were to mess up the potion, it would be rendered poisonous. You would die upon drinking it.”

“It would be a bit like playing Russian Roulette, but all the chambers but one have a bullet,” Tino mused helpfully. “And there are about a hundred cha-

“Yes, thank you for clearing that up in Muggle-speak,” Ari interrupted. “I… well, if anyone can concoct the potion in this school, Eirik, it’s you.”

“Or Snape,” Berwald added. “Or probably my brother.”

Berwald was not on speaking terms with his brother, Aksel—though not by their own choice. Last Christmas, Berwald’s father had deemed him a ‘blood traitor’ and banished him from the Andersen household (at which point Berwald had switched to his mother’s surname). Aksel, who remained the family’s loyal golden child, had been forbidden to speak directly to Berwald. There were enough nosy Slytherins around the castle that Aksel hadn’t even bothered not to obey. And, regardless, Aksel was either too cowardly or too much of a prat to disobey his father anyhow. The two had never been close to begin with, so it hadn’t taken too much effort not to speak in the corridors or look each other in the eye.

“Still, you two have a chance, right?” Ari said. “Why don’t we try? If it doesn’t work, well, my life’s ruined anyway, so that’s just fine with me.”

It took a moment for the weight of that last sentence to sink in, but when it did, Eirik’s face went pale, and his tone went flat and humourless as he replied, “don’t say that. It’ll work.”

“I’m sure it will,” Ari said, but he didn’t sound so sure. “Until then, we can find that passageway to the Shrieking Shack so that I don’t have to terrorize anyone but the ghosts that haunt it. I’ve got a

question, though: where does this werewolf live when he’s not a wolf?”

“We’ll have to find out,” said Eirik. “Either Hagrid lied, and there’s a werewolf living as a man in that forest most the month, or there’s something that the staff aren’t aware of.”

“You ‘n’ Tino’ll have to research that,” Berwald added, pointing at his watch. “We hafta study for Potions.” If he still seemed uneasy about the Wolfsbane Potion, he didn’t say anything else on the matter. Ari was grateful for that.

He nodded. “Okay. Why don’t we meet up tomorrow? Tino and I will be in charge of finding a place for me to stay over the Full Moon, as well as figuring out why there was a werewolf in the Forbidden Forest overnight. You and Eirik can start trying to find out how to make Wolfsbane Potion. That alright?”

That sounded just fine to everyone else, so Berwald and Eirik set off to study in the Ravenclaw common room, while Tino and Ari lingered to continue their research. 

*******

After dinner, Eirik and Berwald decided to go spelunking in the library, desperately trying to find a book that would contain Wolfsbane potion. Overall, the search went pretty poorly. The potion itself had only been discovered about a decade ago, so all the old and venerable-looking books were out of the running. Its subject dabbled in both Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions, so they had to check each area, but few books in either section looked like they were dark and obscure enough for something like Wolfsbane. Approximately an hour into their expedition, Eirik finally decided that the best course of action would be to ask Mme. Pince herself, being sure to sweet-talk her and speak in vague enough terms that she wouldn’t get suspicious.

But even Eirik, who was a master wordsmith when he wanted to be, couldn’t quite manage that. “Excuse me, Madame Pince?” he asked, as innocently as he could, leaning gently on her desk.

Madame Pince looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I’ve been having trouble finding a book, and I was wondering if you could help. See, I’ve been looking for some additional reading for my potions class, perhaps to try out some more obscure potions, and I’ve been particularly interested in Damocles’ work lately. His potions are phenomenal, really. I can’t imagine what it would be like to straight-up  _ invent _ something like Wolfsbane potion. And it was such a recent discovery, as well. The man’s practically a celebrity in the world of potioneers. Do you have any idea where I’d be able to read more about him and his potions?”

Madame Pince scowled, eyes meeting his critically as if looking for evidence of trickery. “Well, anything remotely  _ close _ to Wolfsbane potion would be in the Restricted Section, anyway, so why don’t you talk to Snape about that?”

Eirik knew he was pushing his luck, but he pressed forward. “Well, I know I really should, but you know how Snape is. I doubt he’d give me a pass. Maybe you could le-”

“No pass, no book,” Mme. Pince said flatly, and that was that.

From there, it was clear that Berwald and Eirik had no other choice but to consult their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher (who was a nutjob on a good day, but worlds better than Snape). Professor Romulus was, luckily, a lenient and gullible teacher who bought Eirik’s cover story without argument.

In fact, once Eirik had said that he was “researching the fascinating intersection between Defense Against the Dark Arts and Potions,” Professor Romulus had smiled and offered him extra credit for a report back.

Eirik, who didn't really want to report anything at all, simply nodded and thanked him as Professor Romulus signed the necessary note.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Professor Romulus gushed as he handed the note to Eirik. “a lot of the more modern potions you're looking for are in this book, including the infamous Wolfsbane Potion. Did you know that only two wizards have been able to successfully create Wolfsbane Potion since its invention in 1974?”

Eirik tried not to look discouraged (or suspicious). “Oh, really? That's very interesting.”

“Isn't it? Well, good luck with the potions!”

“Thank you. I'll see you in class on Friday.”

“Yes, see you then!”

*******

That afternoon, Berwald and Eirik finally went to check out their book. Eirik, stifling a smirk, handed Mme. Pince the permission slip, and she looked at it sourly, as though it were a piece of moldy bread.

“See, was that so difficult?” she finally asked, and Eirik didn’t reply. Then, she squinted at the book title, and handed the slip back with pursed lips. “Unfortunately, the book you’re looking for is already checked out.”

Checked out? A million alarm bells went off in Eirik’s head. The one potion book in the school that had the ingredients for Wolfsbane, and it was checked out? Not only was that treacherously unfortunate, it also raised a deeper question: might there be another werewolf searching for a cure?

“Who checked it out?” Berwald asked, briefly locking eyes with Eirik, signifying that he’d likely thought the same thing.

“Some NEWT-level Slytherin with light hair,” Mme. Pince replied shortly, “don’t remember his name, and I’m not about to pull out my confidential records for you. He got a permission slip from Snape. Perhaps you should ask him.”

“That’s all you’ll tell us?”

“Yes, now, if you’ll excuse me, there are other students waiting.”

And sure enough, when the two turned around, they saw a third-year Hufflepuff girl clutching a small stack of books.

Eirik let out a sigh. “Fine. Let’s go, Berwald.”

Dejected, they left the library with a new mission entirely: track down the Slytherin who had checked out the book, and find a way to steal it from him.

“Well, this should be fun,” Berwald muttered.

“Yes,” Eirik nodded, “yes it should be.”


	4. Dittany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! Thanks for the kudos/comments!

_October 4t_ _h,_ _1987 - Ravenclaw Common room, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts; 9:28PM_

The Ravenclaw common room was perhaps the most open of the four houses’. Its only requirement upon entry was the wit and patience needed to solve a riddle. If a guest was witty and patient enough to figure out the passcode, then he or she would be free to enter. This is why, in spite of various guest appearances in the common room over the years, the Ravenclaws still maintained that their room was only touched by those meant to enter: anyone who showed an appreciation for intellect was enough a Ravenclaw to be welcome in the common room.

At least, that’s what Eirik told Ari and Tino when they decided to meet up in the Ravenclaw Tower that evening. The fact that it was too late for anyone to notice a Gryffindor and a Hufflepuff entering was, of course, completely irrelevant; as was the fact that it meant no one would hear about Ari’s werewolf situation.

Ari himself wasn’t sure he bought it, but he wasn’t about to argue when they had no better place to meet late at night. He knew his brother was an expert bluffer, constantly putting on stoic, confident façades to hide the fact that he was improvising. Things usually slid right into place in front of Eirik, an invisible floor appearing under his feet as he walked casually across the precarious cliffs of his life. Any moment, Ari half-expected that his brother would finally fall victim to gravity like the rest of Earth’s mere mortals, but even after sixteen years, Eirik was still strutting on thin air like it was simple.

It was infuriating, and Ari didn’t understand it, but it was true.

The riddle was actually fairly simple, in Ari’s opinion. To be fair, though, Ari had read a fair bit of Tolkien as a child, and he’d always loved riddles. True to the Ravenclaw code, the non-Ravenclaws figured out the riddle on their own (in three minutes flat, no less), and the bronze eagle let them enter.

Fortunately, the Ravenclaw common room was empty that night. It was Eirik’s night to keep watch again (actually, it was technically Lien Chung’s night to keep watch, but Eirik had kindly offered to cover her shift, and she’d accepted).

For once, Tino spoke up first and got right down to business. “Ari and I didn't see anything else useful. Any luck with the potion?”

Berwald shook his head. “Can’t find it.”

“You already gave up?” Ari asked dubiously. He wasn't exactly disappointed (it was unlikely the potion would've worked, anyhow, and his jabs about being willing to poison himself were mere bravado). He was genuinely surprised: it wasn't normal for those two to quit poking at a question before prodding it from all angles.

“That’s not what we said,” Eirik shot back icily. “See, the instructions for the potion are in a particular book, but according to Madame Pince, it’s checked out. And get this: Snape gave permission for a _certain Slytherin boy with light hair_ to check out the book.”

“Well, how many light-haired Slytherin boys can there possibly be?” asked Ari, sarcasm creeping into his tone as he tilted his head back to rest atop his chair, eyes closed tightly shut. He could name dozens of Slytherin boys with lighter hair (in fact, he could probably name entire pureblood traditionalist families with light hair). However, as he peeked out past his bangs, Eirik was still smirking.

“The suspect list isn't as long as you'd think,” Eirik assured him. “We made a list of all the Slytherins in Advanced Potions. Anyone below NEWT level would never be able to get their hands on this, even considering Snape’s favoritism.”

“And?” Ari asked, waiting for a punch line.

Berwald cleared his throat. “Got it down to five.”

“That’s not so bad,” Tino exclaimed. “Which five?”

Berwald rattled off the names, counting to five on his fingers. “Arthur Kirkland, Gilbert Beilschmidt, Jan Mulder, Ivan Braginsky, and…” He trailed off, eyes averted, then added: “and my brother.”

“What a bunch of gits!” Ari cried out, suddenly sitting up straight as his fists clenched. He'd had run-ins with each one of those boys, and none of them had been pleasant. “I wouldn’t put it past any one of those prats, honestly.”

Eirik smirked. “Your Gryffindor’s showing. Jan’s actually not so bad.”

“Except that he’s an arrogant, self-centered pig,” Ari scoffed. His roommate, Leo Mulder, was Jan's little brother, and Jan rarely spoke or even paid attention to him. It was as if Jan was too good for his little brother.

“No, just seems like one,” Berwald corrected sagely. “Sorta like Eirik.”

Ari raised an eyebrow, cracking a smile for perhaps the first time since he'd been turned. “And you’re claiming that Eirik isn’t a self-centered pig?”

“You're off-topic,” Eirik butt in with a pointed glare at each of them. “The spellbook we're looking for closely involves the Dark Arts. Jan isn’t very interested in such things. He’s not in Advanced DADA, and his family hasn't gotten tangled up with Death Eaters, so it’s unlikely he’d be the culprit.”

“But if none of the other four have the book, then we'll have to check him out,” Ari retorted, though in his mind, he did have to admit that Jan Mulder was an unlikely suspect. Eirik was right: the Mulders always kept their heads down. Studying the Dark Arts would draw too much unwanted attention. “Is there anyone else we can rule out?”

Tino finally spoke up, brow furrowed into a scowl. “As much as I hate Ivan, I don’t think he’d do this either. His family’s very concerned with keeping their noses clean, too, after that _close call_ his parents had during the War. But if the other three didn't do it, he's definitely higher up on the suspect list than Jan, so-”

“You're right,” Eirik agreed, lest Tino ramble on forever, “he’s loyal enough to his family that he probably wouldn’t risk it. That, and if he wanted such a book, he could simply ask his parents for one. I hear they’ve still got a hidden library of dark books around, and if Ivan had access to something like that, he’d probably go looking there, where it’s more private.”

Ari took a moment to absorb all the information that he'd just been given. As he turned it all over, he couldn't seem to find any fallacy, so he grunted in affirmation and said, “so, assuming we're right, that leaves Kirkland, Beilschmidt, and Andersen.”

“Kirkland would keep his nose clean as well,” his brother pointed out immediately, “since he’s Head Boy. Beyond that, his family is full of blood-traitors. He has some interest in Defense Against the Dark Arts, but I think he’s much more enticed by monsters than dodgy magic. That, and he’s set on becoming an auror. Not exactly the type of bloke to go poking around the restricted section looking for shady books. Anyone disagree?”

Berwald shook his head. “Nope.”

Tino also said no, and they all turned to Ari.

“Erm, sounds right to me,” Ari stuttered out, feeling a bit unnerved with this much pressure. Sure, he was a prefect, but he wasn't much the leader, and suddenly, these three other wizards (all older than him) were looking to him for approval?

Merlin, it was scary. It made sense—he was the werewolf, after all, and they were doing this for his sake. That didn't mean this whole situation wasn’t terrifying, though.

“Alright…” Ari continued, since everyone was still  at him, including his control-freak older brother. “So, Beilschmidt or Andersen?”

Berwald spoke up before Eirik this  time, saying words that no one else dared to speak. “My galleon’s’d be on my brother. He loves th’ dark arts. Probably get a kick reading potion books about werewolves and vampires and dark magic.”

“You sure _that’s_ not just your bias showing, Berwald?” Ari shot back with a smirk. “I mean, I know your family is full of militant purebloods, but-”

Eirik snorted. “Alright, you cannot just begin a sentence like that and expect us to listen to your defense. He is King Prat, and you know it, Ari.”

He could sense his brother picking up his typical role as leader again, and Ari tried not to sigh in relief. One awkward comment, and they would all be looking at his brother—and, by extension, not _Ari_ —leaving him free to be right or wrong or whatever he pleased.

“Yes, he is, but so is Beilschmidt!” Ari hissed,impudently and immaturely as he could. He crossed I his arms over his chest, and let his face slide into a familiar put. “Gilbert knocked me off my broom last year! I broke my ankle, and he just laughed.”

Eirik rolled his eyes, and leveled Ari with a patronizing, ‘isn't-my-little-brother-too-cute’ kind of leer. Ari normally hated it, but now he basked in its warmth. Now, at least, his friends and brother were acting like themselves. “And this proves that he’s interested in dark potions books because-”

“Oh, shut it!” Ari sneered.

“Sorry, Ari, but I agree,” Tino added gently. “You’ve seen Aksel over the years. He’s decent to those his parents approve of, but…”

“He’s so set on pleasing m’ dad that he can’t see that he’s an idiot,” Berwald muttered darkly, face grim under the dim, burnt-orange candlelight. “Never thinks for himself, only thinks _of_ himself.”

“And don't you remember when Eirik was in third year?” Tino added, working himself up quickly into a rage (and a raging Tino was incredibly intimidating) “He and Aksel were partnered up in Potions, and he wouldn't even look at him or say his name! He just called him ‘hey, you!’ or, y’know… _mudblood._ ” The last word was whispered, and said in a wavering tone, as if he could barely bring himself to say it. He shot Eirik an apologetic look, but he waved a dismissive hand and mouthed _‘it's fine’_.

“Fine, fine!” Ari relented, because he really didn't want to get political right now (Eirik had been given enough trouble for being muggle-born over the years, and he wasn't in the mood to relive that at the moment). “Aksel is King Prat, Ruler of All Slytherin Toerags. Never you mind my gut feelings. Let’s go after him. If you’re wrong, though, just know that I told you so.”

“Duly noted,” Eirik replied with a derisive snort. “Now, here's the plan: we need someone quick and stealthy-”

“Tino,” Berwald suggested.

Eirik nodded. “Yes, Tino, if it's alright with you.”

Tino shrugged. “Sure, I guess.”

“Alright, so during breakfast tomorrow, Tino will carefully check Aksel's bag while he isn't looking. If it's not there, he can go through the other suspects. Then, he can steal the book and I’ll copy down the potion. After that-”

“It’ll be too obvious if we do that in the Great Hall, though,” Tino interrupted. “Copy the instructions for the potion, I mean. We'd need to have the book out and anyone could read over our shoulders. Maybe I should hand it off and you or Berwald can copy it in the dormitory?”

“Sounds good,” Berwald said

Eirik grunted in agreement. “Yes, and then I can give it back during potions tomorrow. I’ll pretend he dropped it, so he won't think I stole it.”

_Oh, yes,_ Ari mused, _have the muggle-born talk to the possible undercover Death Eater. That's a great idea._ He frowned. “Are you sure that's a good idea?”

Tino seemed glad that someone had decided to wish up, and he added, “yeah, we were literally just talking about how he-”

“That was three years ago, he's learned some manners since then. I think I'll manage.”

“'F you say so.”

 

*******

Though Tino was prone to talking loudly and voluminously when he was speaking with others, he definitely knew how to be stealthy. He had a natural affinity for hiding (when he and Eirik had introduced him to muggle hide-and-seek, Berwald had claimed that Tino was so impossible to spot he might as well have been wearing an invisibility cloak), and when he focused on something, he usually became completely silent.

This was an incredibly useful ability. In the past, Tino had used it to sneak around the castle at night, sneak up on his friends, and pull phenomenal pranks. Now, however, his skills would truly be put to the test. Since Tino was supposed to find a way to get to the Slytherin table, sneak a peek of Aksel's bag, check for the book, steal it, and drop it off at the Ravenclaw table—all without arousing suspicion on the part of the teachers and students in the Great Hall.

_Well, I wouldn't be able to do it,_ Berwald thought to himself as he watched Tino from the safety of the Ravenclaw table. Next to him, Eirik seemed completely calm and confident in Tino's capability, a face serene and expressionless as he perused the book in front of him. The book, titled _Dark Creatures are Among Us,_ was written by a reactionary who seemed to think that werewolves ate babies and plotted wizard genocide with giants and vampires. Personally, Berwald didn't understand how anyone could read such a book as calmly as Eirik was right now, but there he was, reading about how his step-brother was clearly a homicidal maniac, all while eating a bowl of porridge with cinnamon for breakfast.

Berwald knew his best friend was an eccentric, but this was just plain weird.

Shaking his head, Berwald turned his attention back to Tino, who had walked over to the Slytherin table ever-so-casually and had struck up an innocent conversation with Arthur Kirkland about unicorns. This, Berwald realized, was the perfect cover: Tino and Arthur both loved Care of Magical Creatures, and if Tino had questions about unicorns (which he did) Kirkland would probably be the first person to ask. All the other Slytherins knew not to laugh (the Head Boy was very serious about unicorns, and he wasn't afraid to dock points for rudeness), so they all ignored Kirkland and Tino. This left Tino free to glance over at Aksel every few moments without anyone noticing.

Had Berwald not been looking so closely, he might not have noticed the excited flicker of recognition in Tino's eyes as Aksel opened his bag to grab a spare quill—jackpot, Berwald presumed.

After waiting for Kirkland to finish listing his tips on unicorn spotting, Tino thanked him contritely and told him he'd come back if he had more questions. Kirkland seemed excited by this, though perhaps more out of interest in unicorns than in Tino himself.

Then, Tino set off toward the table, and for a moment, Berwald thought he'd forgotten about the book altogether (or, worse, Berwald had misread that spark in Tino's handsome hazel eyes altogether, and there was no book to be found). But, just as he was walking past Aksel-

_Crash!_

Tino all but face-planted on the ground, his bag flying off his shoulder and smacking on the floor alongside him. Books flew everywhere in a flock of floating feathery parchment and supplies, fluttering softly to rest in the hurricane of paper where Tino sat in the eye. In the chaos, no one seemed to notice the almost silent _“accio book!”_ directed at Aksel's forgotten knapsack—one stolen book sliding below the papers was far too difficult to notice with the mess unless you were expecting it.

Needless to say, Berwald was impressed. He could kiss Tino (honestly, that was sort of a constant state for Berwald, but this moment would have been a particularly good moment for a kiss, if he ever worked up the nerve).

Several Slytherins snickered, hissing words of slander in each others' ears as Tino scrambled to gather all his books and shove them back into his own bag. “Oh god, I'm so sorry!" Tino gushed, easing the last stray papers in. “Don't mind me, I'm always such a klutz, goodness..." Finally, the tips of his ears flushed pink, Tino ran back to his seat, completely abashed.

At least, that's what it looked like to everyone else. Tino sat back down at the Hufflepuff table for a requisite seven and a half minutes, chatting quietly with his best friend, Eduard Von Bock. Suppressing a grin, Berwald noted how gorgeous Tino's smile was, and how content he looked right then, his dirty blond bangs flipping over as he tossed his head back in laughter—Eduard had apparently made a good joke.

However, after the seven and a half minutes they'd deemed necessary to throw off any lingering suspicion, Tino was back to business. Excusing himself, he walked over to the Ravenclaw table, sitting down beside Berwald and smiling as he said, “Hey, Ber! I was wondering when you wanted to meet up and study this afternoon?" He flashed Berwald a saucy wink, and Berwald nearly had a heart attack. Merlin, did Tino know that he was absolutely adorable, or was this just his natural state of being?

Once Berwald regained control of his fine motor skills (as much control as he cared to use, anyway—Berwald was prone to mumbling), he managed a dopey smile and replied, “Maybe around five in th' evening? Eirik and I need t' catch up on our, uh-"

“Our potions homework," Eirik finished flatly, not even looking up from his book.

Berwald wasn't quite as adept at acting as the other two, and it showed. Had he been in charge of the operation, he mused, it probably would have crash landed as fast as he'd tried to implement it.

He nodded. “Yup, potions homework."

Tino looked unfazed by the slip-up. “Well, alright then! I guess I'll see you then!"

And then he left, walking languidly back to his seat.

Berwald's eyes were starting to glaze over when Eirik tugged on his robes. “He get it?" he asked, voice lowered so that it was nearly a whisper.

He opened up his bag. Sure enough, the restricted book was tucked next to his textbooks, sitting in his backpack so casually that it might as well have been there all day. “Yup," he said as he pointed his wand inside the bag and murmured a disguising spell that transfigured the cover of the book into one less incriminating.

The ingredients to Wolfsbane potion were right in front of them.

 

*******

In Eirik's opinion, the primary reason Severus Snape was a great potioneer was because Snape himself was so very like a potion. After four years in his class, Eirik felt that he could dissect his professor into a greasy and needlessly complicated ingredients list just like anything he saw in his class. It likely went something like this: 1 part slime, 4 parts hatred for his job, 2 parts anger because of his troubled past, and 3 parts unnecessary favoritism for Slytherin, garnished with just enough genius that Eirik couldn't insult him the way he could other bad professors.

Naturally, this infuriated Eirik. He loved talking trash, but jokes about disgusting hair and a bad attitude got old after four years. Slughorn had been a far easier target (and Eirik's stepfather was a wealthy Icelandic wizard, so Eirik had had a free pass to be pretentious once a week in the Slug Club).

Snape hated Eirik Jensen insofar as he could get away with it. Eirik made this difficult on him, however. Eirik was great at potion-making, so Snape couldn't single him out for his lack of skill. On the other hand, since Eirik wasn't a know-it-all, and only spoke when spoken to, Snape couldn't call him out on that, either. So, since Snape had no good reason to actually dislike Eirik, and Eirik had no good insults to toss at Snape, they each simply glared at each other distastefully, at a permanent impasse.

Things were no different today, as Eirik was brewing a particularly challenging potion far more accurately than many others in his class—including Berwald, who would occasionally turn to ask him some quiet questions under his breath.

The only student whose ability seemed to match Eirik's was Aksel Andersen, whose potion had just turned a perfect acid green color. Jan Mulder, Andersen's best friend, never asked him questions, but he would occasionally chance a look over Andersen's shoulder to see what exactly he should do. Eirik found this fascinating; unlike Berwald, Andersen's friend would try to make sure his friend couldn't see him getting help. Since there was no way Mulder was doing that so he wouldn't get caught (he was a Slytherin, so Snape wouldn't care), all Eirik could imagine was that Mulder was specifically trying to keep Andersen from finding out.

As Andersen’s supposed best friend, Eirik thought that was a pretty awful thing to do, but he wasn’t about to let slip that he’d been concentrating his gaze on Aksel Andersen for a good seven minutes. He’d been looking over at Aksel for so long now, only pausing to thoughtlessly stir his potion and add the next ingredients (it was an antidote he’d already studied before privately, and he could probably brew it in his sleep) that he didn’t notice Snape creeping up behind him until he felt his professor’s breath raise the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Jensen?” Snape asked, voice quiet and tone almost teasing, like he’d finally found a reason to incriminate Eirik.

Merlin. “Yes?” Eirik replied, turning to meet Snape’s leer as he added some chopped dittany to his cauldron.

Snape’s lips curled into a cruel and twisted sort of sneer. Paired with the oily, black hair, Eirik was reminded of a particularly pretentious crow. “You seem awfully focused on Mr. Andersen, there,” Snape continued, and Aksel Andersen turned on instinct. His sky-blue eyes glanced up at Snape, then locked on Eirik’s. Eirik could see the exact moment when Andersen seemed to notice that Eirik had been staring, could tell from the suspicious way his eyes lit up and his brow furrowed indignantly.

Eirik bit his lip. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said coolly, though he could feel his cheeks burning.

“You can’t fool me, Jensen,” Snape shot back. Since there were only nine students in Advanced Potions, any disruption had the potential to catch the whole class’s attention. At this point, the only two students who were not listening to Snape’s every word were Xiao Mei and Emma Mulder (Jan’s sister), both Hufflepuffs, who were chatting in the corner.

Unnerved, Eirik said nothing, gaze falling to the ground. He could still feel Andersen staring at him with laser eyes, boring a hole into his skull.

Snape continued, gaining ground as he realized he had finally cornered the boy. “Tell me, Jensen, was Mr. Andersen simply so alluring that you couldn’t bear to turn away? I know Miss Mulder struggles with that affliction on occasion.”

Clearly, Snape, too, had noticed who hadn’t been listening, because now even the outgoing Emma Mulder had ceased chattering to look up at Snape. _Lovely,_ Eirik grumbled inwardly as he stifled an eyeroll. _The one day I need to be stealthy..._

“Professor Snape-” he tried, frantically grasping for some ledge or grip of reason that would shake off his brutal Potions master.

But Snape had already proven his point, already gained his eager audience, already cornered Eirik into a black hole of embarrassment. There was no stopping him now. “Fifty points from Ravenclaw,” he lilted, “for cheating… and ten more for talking back to me, Jensen.”

All eyes were on Eirik, some disbelieving, others sympathetic, others malevolent—but Andersen’s eyes stood out to him in particular for their supreme bemusement and agitation. He seemed frustrated, perhaps at Eirik for cheating (which he hadn’t been), or for staring dopily (which… unfortunately, Eirik couldn’t argue with).

Luckily, the bell rang at that very moment, and Eirik’s potion was still passable. Before anyone could stop and talk to him, he slung his knapsack over one shoulder and booked it.

He didn’t make it down a single corridor.

As he ran, something snagged on the free strap of his bag, sending Eirik tumbling to the floor, cursing as his knees hit stone. Grumbling to himself, he turned around to see what—or rather, who—had tripped him.

Electric cyan eyes met Eirik’s, and he jumped as he realized, “Andersen, seriously? I'm a bit disappointed. Haven’t pulled something this petty since third year, thought you'd upped your game.”

“Sorry, sorry!” Andersen instantly recoiled, his hands hanging awkwardly in front of him, caught between reaching outwards to help and pushing away in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t-!” he spluttered, cutting himself off. Then, he shook his head, and again, Eirik could see the exact moment Andersen's mood shifted. The boy let his guard down, shoulders relaxing as the crease between his brow finally smoothed out.

“Here,” he said, offering Eirik a hand, “let me help you up.”

Eirik took a moment to process Andersen’s offer, sitting dumbly on the floor. Then, figuring that the worst case scenario was Andersen dropping him again (which would have been a pretty immature move), he took the hand and Andersen lifted him to his feet.

The two looked at each other warily, Eirik feeling skeptical, Andersen seeming a bit intimidated.

Finally, Eirik brushed off his robes and nodded at Andersen, gruffly muttering his thanks.

Andersen continued to stare, but Eirik realized that the boy had dropped his gaze a bit below his eyes, settling on Eirik's… chin?

No, his _lips._ Well, that was certainly an interesting development. And if that didn't make goosebumps rise up and down Eirik's arms…. He shook his head. “So, if you weren't trying to publicly humiliate me, then what exactly was your goal?”

“Oh!” That seemed to snap Andersen out of whatever trance he'd let himself enter. For a cruel moment, Eirik had worried Andersen would accuse him of cheating, but then he said, “well, you're good friends with Berwald, right?”

Eirik narrowed his eyes at him. “I suppose—not that it's really any of your business anymore.” He kept his words sharp, his tone brisk. Suddenly, he remembered exactly why he'd been warned so heavily before trying to talk to him: Andersen was on good terms with the children of former Death Eaters, and he was unpredictable around blood-traitors and muggle-borns like Eirik and Berwald. He was likely just delivering an intolerant message from his intolerant parents, bemoaning the ignominy Berwald had wrought upon the Andersen household, as if banishment hadn't been enough.

And, well, if Eirik had to ignore the way Andersen was chewing his lips and ruffling his own hair (clear signs that he was nervous), as well as the way that Andersen fixed his gaze on Eirik’s lips and stifled a smirk (clear signs that he saw _something_ attractive in Eirik)…. Well, then that was that. Perhaps Eirik was being too optimistic about this whole scenario.

Andersen held up his hands again. “It's nothing bad, I'm not- I just- well…” He sighed, made a frustrated sort of groan, and started over. “I was wondering if he was doing alright. I haven't been able to talk to him in over a year now, and I just… wanted to know, I guess.”

“Ah,” Eirik replied, because nothing more substantial would pass his lips, which hung slack like a drawbridge, unyielding and insurmountable.

Or, maybe Andersen wasn’t a judgemental prat anymore? Maybe now (and now Eirik just _knew_ he was being ridiculous), Andersen was intelligent, handsome, _and_ kind. That would make him just about perfect, in Eirik’s mind, which made it too good to be true.

Right?

“So,” Andersen prompted, since Eirik hadn’t given him a real answer yet, “is he- alright, I mean?”

“Yes, yes, he's fine,” Eirik blurted, thoughts bumbling around his head but never quite clicking into place. He couldn’t quite reconcile Third Year Andersen with this new, Sixth Year one. Shaking his head, he kept his tone short and stiff. “Never better. Your parents (or at least your father) abused him, you know that, right? Honestly, no offense, but Berwald was better off after he cut ties with his family.”

His words seemed to hurt Andersen, but they didn't seem to surprise him. “I know,” he said, wetting his chapped lips with his tongue. “I- well, I figured that would be true. Next time you see him, Eirik, could you tell him hello from me? And that I really wouldn't mind speaking to him again? I miss him.”

“That would be fine, I guess,” Eirik agreed. “I wasn't aware that we were on a first-name basis, or even on speaking terms, though.”

“Come on, _that's_ what bothers you about a this?” Andersen scoffed, a playful and bittersweet and familiar grin playing at his lips. “Figured six years of being an arse to you was more than enough, _Jensen.”_

It was the genuine guilt and humor and broken pride that shone through in Andersen's eyes that finally convinced Eirik. The pieces slowly clicked into place, and though he didn’t understand it quite yet, he finally accepted it: “You’re different, Aksel Andersen. What changed?”

Andersen continued to smile at Eirik, but it faded a bit, looking as though it was held up by marionette strings at the ends. “Let's just say I had an enlightening experience last summer.”

“Well, glad to see you’re a changed man, Andersen,” Eirik shot back snidely. “But don't think this is all it will take to win my trust.” But, since Andersen was acting so uncharacteristically kind, Eirik couldn't help but let his guard down. On a whim, he pulled the Dark Arts book out of his bag, and held it out for Andersen to take. “Oh, and also: is this your book? Tino accidently picked it up earlier, when he made a fool of himself in the Great Hall during breakfast.”

“I've been looking for that!” Andersen exclaimed as he snatched the book and shoved it in his own satchel. He laughed to himself, as if he found all this terribly amusing. “Oh, that must've scared him half to death. Dark book, that—nothing Tino would be interested in. Guess I must've dropped it in all the commotion.”

It was easy. It was _too_ easy. But Eirik couldn't bring himself to care anymore, gracing the other boy with a smirk. “Must have.”

Andersen thanked him, and he looked like he was going to say more, but the bell cut him off, and, realizing they were late for Advanced Charms, they both took off at a sprint toward Flitwick’s room.

And that was the day Eirik realized that he might maybe possibly have the slightest crush on Andersen—at least, the day he decided that he would perhaps entertain the possibility of a mild crush.

Eirik Jensen was in too deep.

 

*******

_October 24_ _th,_ _1987 - Ravenclaw Common Room, Ravenclaw Tower, Hogwarts; 4:36PM_

Wolfsbane proved almost impossible to brew, even for a prodigy like Eirik. Soon enough, the sixth year boys’ dormitory in the Ravenclaw Tower constantly had a cauldron or three simmering in the corner by Eirik’s four-poster, and Berwald’s nightstand was always overflowing with plates of mint, lavender, and shards of silver as thin as pencil shavings. In the drawer, there was a large jug of smuggled aconite labeled _“Laxative Potion- do not drink!”_ in bold, capitalized block letters.

The false labeling had been Eirik’s idea, but it was Tino who had ultimately decided that a laxative potion was repulsive-but-common enough to ward off snoopers without drawing too much attention.

The only problem now, as the two were up in the dormitory before dinner, was that the gigantic jug Eirik had nicked from Snape’s cupboard was finally empty.

“Seriously?" Eirik groaned, nails digging into his palms. “If we don't add the aconite now, then the potion is useless.”

Berwald shrugged. “Sorry, Eirik. Should've noticed earlier.”

And they'd left it there until after lights out.

 

*******

Late that night, they met Ari at his post and talked him into sneaking down to Snape's classroom with them. They would've taken Tino, but he wasn't a prefect and thus wasn't accessible at this hour without prior notice.

Ari insisted he was only going because he'd heard that, “Snape is apparently going to be away for the evening, and another Prefect said it, so it must be true."

In response, Eirik had insisted that that was “a load of prime Hogwarts hogwash," earned a firm pat on the back and a nod off solidarity from Berwald for his witticism (“heh, Hogwarts hogwash, ‘s actually pretty funny”), and smirked arrogantly to himself.

Finally, they crept away from the entrance to the common room, Eirik feeling self-satisfied, and Ari feeling anxious and indignant.

Slowly, gingerly, the three made their way out of the Gryffindor tower, clinging to walls and hiding behind suits of armour all the while. As sixth years with insatiable curiosities, Berwald and Eirik were very familiar with the castle after dark, and they'd nearly memorized the way Filch paced the castle, or the manner in which Mrs. Norris scampered between the cracks in search of students out of line.

Eirik and Ari would be able to explain their ways out of trouble, anyway, until they were down in the dungeons.

The dungeons were, perhaps not so coincidentally, the area they'd searched the least. Their aversion to Slytherin (as two muggle-borns and a blood traitor), in conjunction with the looming threat of Snape finding them, was more than enough to keep them away, most the time.

So, as they dodged Mrs. Norris’s sneaky padded steps one final time, and Berwald motioned for them to follow him down the steps, Ari’s blood roared in his ears, thrumming anxiously as his shaky hands clutched the railing.

And honestly? Ari felt justified. Last time he'd snuck out after curfew, he'd been turned into a dark creature. The inside of the castle might've been safer, but now he was on edge. Sleeping suits of armor turned into Filch's shadow, and the snores of paintings on the wall morphed into McGonagall's footsteps moving toward him.

When they finally made it down to the dungeons without incident, and the door to Snape’s classroom clicked shut behind them,  Ari heaved a sigh of relief. “Alright, next time you two need to go on an ingredient raid? Take someone else, please.”

Eirik snorted. “Really, Ari, for a Gryffindor, you have no sense of adventure.”

“Your sense of adventure almost got me killed!” Ari retorted, though he kept his voice hushed lest someone be lurking in the halls. “Or have you already forgotten?”

That seemed to shut Eirik up, so Ari walked into the supply cabinet and began the search for aconite, figuring the other two could keep watch. Behind him, he vaguely heard Berwald ask something like “what’s that?”, and Ari rolled his eyes at them. They were both nerds in Advanced Potions (nerds who wanted an Alchemy class at Hogwarts). They were probably getting worked up over rat spleens or toad eyeballs or something equally disgusting.

But he was getting distracted. He needed to find the aconite.

The deadly substances, he reasoned, would be out of the way, so he looked for shelves above and below eye level, out of sight. Luckily, it only took a minute or two before he spotted a stock of clear bottles labeled “Wolfsbane”. Under the light of his wand, he could see the royal blue poison inside. It sent shivers down his spine. He could kill a man with this. He could reduce the spread of lycanthropy with this. He could-

Before he could finish his thought, the unmistakeable sound of shattering glass erupted from behind the door, resonating across all the dungeons.

Ari growled, “Are you two serious?! Can’t keep your slippery fingers to yourself for five minutes while I find something important, can you?! Oh my god, this always-”

“Ari,” Eirik replied, much more quietly.

“What?” he demanded, still not leaving the supply closet.

Eirik shushed him, then whispered, “footsteps.”

And sure enough, someone was walking toward the dungeon as they spoke.

Ari cursed under his breath, and he barely had time to mutter, _“Nox,”_ and darken his wand before the doors burst open.

There was pin-drop silence for an agonizing minute, then Aksel Andersen’s brash voice cut through, exclaiming, “what the hell?”


	5. Sheepskin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art for this chapter by [Ninni,](http://ninnislullaby.tumblr.com/) and you can find the original image [right here!](https://ninnislullaby.tumblr.com/post/161022387883/the-background-to-this-picture-will-soon-in-a-few) Please give her pic some love, she deserves it <3
> 
> Sorry for the delay! I realized I had left out something important, and had to go back and edit. If the next chapter isn't up within 48 hours, you have full permission to riot. Again, thank you all so much for reading; your kudos and comments are wonderful as well.

_October 25_ _th_ _, 1987 - Slytherin Common room, Slytherin Dungeon, Hogwarts; 1:47 AM_

Aksel was asleep in his bed.

No, actually he wasn't. But he was supposed to be asleep in his bed. He wanted to be asleep in his bed. He'd paced around the Slytherin common room for hours, and Kirkland had already gone in for the night _(Merlin, Andersen, it's half past one in the morning!)_ , but his feet wouldn't stop moving, one in front of the other, heel to toe, ever and ever on in circles around the perimeter.

The nightmares wouldn't cease—hadn't ceased since that one treacherous night, almost four months ago. He was thankful for the darkness of the dungeon, for the water out the window that never let the moonlight shine through. Whenever the Full Moon haunted his dreams, he would wake and lookout into the pure darkness—the inky black water that sloshed every so often with the sounds of fish and squid and other creatures—and feel calm.

Not tonight, though. Tonight, it wasn't the full moon in his nightmares that had unnerved him. Tonight, it was the dream (or was it a memory?) of a full moon, one where he'd attacked someone. Scared violet eyes, a wand wavering between white-knuckled fingers, and the sickening taste of blood…. Every few seconds, he would draw a hand across his chin and over his lips, because he could _feel_ the blood across his fur (no, he had skin, smooth and human skin).

“Air,” Aksel gasped, because he his breath was quickly swelling to hyperventilation. “I need some air.” And so, far too late at night (too early in the morning) for any logical sort of excuse, he walked out, taking a lap around the vicinity, waiting for his heart rate to slow down. But, just as he was finally starting to accept that he wasn't in immediate danger and no one else was either, he heard a _crash_ coming from Snape’s dungeon.

Muffled yells. Whispers. Footsteps.

Aksel rolled his eyes, even as his fists clenched nervously at his sides. “Stupid first years,” he murmured as he approached the door to the room, reminding himself that young Slytherins would go to almost any lengths when they wanted something—even if that something was in Snape's dungeon. He'd almost certainly have to deduct points, which was unfortunate because Slytherin was in the lead by a fair margin at the moment.

Closing his throat and forgetting his fear in favor of prefectural power, Aksel thrust open the door, scoldings and reprimands on his tongue, when he saw his stupid brother on his arses, a dented cauldron upside-down near his head and a smashed glass of frog legs scattered across the entire room. Eirik Jensen was next to him, pushing his blond fringe away from his eyes, which were wide with surprise.

They were lucky Snape was out tonight.

Words of constructive criticism dead on his tongue, all Aksel said was, “what the hell?” as a frog leg twitched at his feet.

Eirik locked eyes with him. His magnificent indigo irises matched his pajama bottoms perfectly, and Aksel wondered how he managed to look aristocratic even when he was sitting on a dungeon floor in his nightclothes, surrounded by shards of glass and fidgeting frog legs. His brow was furrowed disdainfully, and it reminded him of nothing so much as a Malfoy sneer, of elitist class and prowess. Had Aksel not known he was muggle-born, he probably would've thought Eirik was a pureblood.

“Honestly, Andersen,” Eirik sighed boredly, face suddenly the perfect mask of calm (though his ears cheeks were flushed), “it's really none of your business. Why don't you go back to your dark magic and leave us in peace?”

Aksel rolled his eyes. “What, and leave without finding out what my brother is doing in Snape's classroom after midnight? We all know I wouldn't be able to sleep at night,” he replied. _“Reparo,”_ he added with a flick of his wand, and the jar of frog legs came back together, clinking as it landed on the shelf in the supply cupboard where it belonged. The cauldron turned over, the dent gone.

“Thought y’weren't s’posed to be my brother anymore. Or be talking t’me.”

And with that, Aksel’s feigned confidence was ruined, his smile sliding into the slightest of frowns. “I never said that,” he shot back. “Really, Ber, what's up? Two Ravenclaw sixth years in the Potions dungeon at two in the morning can't be up to anything but mischief. How about this: I won't tell Snape, but only if I get to know what you're doing.”

“No!” cried another, new voice whose form was hidden in the darkest corner of the supply cupboard.

Aksel jumped.

“We can't tell you,” Eirik added overtop of the voice, looking at once more nervous than Aksel had ever seen him.

“Why not?” Aksel asked, suspicious. “Who's back there? _Lumos maxima!”_

His wand flashed bright enough that everyone winced, but when Aksel’s vision cleared up, the first thing he saw was a pair of familiar violet eyes.

The second thing he saw was a clear bottle of blue liquid labeled ‘Aconite: DO NOT DRINK’. The boy with violet eyes—Ari Gunnarsson, Aksel realized, Eirik's little brother—had the bottle of poison clutched tightly in his hands. The bottle and the liquid in it quavered under his grip, which was white-knuckled and shaking.

That didn’t quite look like mischief to Aksel. But there was still something, something in those purple eyes, something about that aconite… or rather, wolfsbane….

And then it clicked.

Aksel’s wand slipped from his hand, but he barely noticed. The eerie, anxious look in Ari Gunnarsson’s eyes was exactly the same look that plagued his nightmares, he realized. It was Ari Gunnarsson, fifth year, that had cried pained and panicked tears as the wolf attacked.

And here he was, holding a bottle of Wolfsbane (something Aksel himself had tried to smuggle not two days ago) as he tried to find words to say, surreptitiously trying to hide faded red teeth marks on his upper left arm.

“Wolfsbane…” he muttered. “You…. Your arm is scarred,” he noticed as he reached out his hand, and as the final cogs clicked into place, the truth hit him with the force of a Hungarian Horntail. “You're a werewolf.”

He’d bitten him. Ari Gunnarsson was a werewolf, now, and it was _his fault._

Ari didn't say anything, he just set the bottle of aconite down and scrubbed at his eyes, mouth hanging open in shock and fear.

Aksel turned to Eirik. “You're making Wolfsbane Potion?”

Eirik bit his lip and scowled, but nodded nonetheless.

Then, everyone turned to Ari, who couldn't even bring himself to look up. The boy put his face in his hands, and under the dim light that still shone from Aksel’s wand on the floor, Aksel saw Ari’s shoulders shake with muffled sobs.

Now, as a Slytherin, Aksel typically had little sympathy for Gryffindors. Back in third year, he might've made fun of Ari for crying _(not so brave_ now, _are you?)_ , but now the sight of the boy sent chills down his spine.

Half-blood or not, Aksel had done this to Ari. This was _his_ fault.

Aksel might've been a Slytherin, but he was also a hatstall for Hufflepuff (and he would take that secret to his grave). His cunning side cried for blackmail and power, but his loyal, sympathetic side told him that he was responsible for a fellow werewolf and a friend of Berwald’s.

Merlin, his Hufflepuff side was still loyal to Berwald! Imagine what his ‘friends’ in Slytherin and his family would think.

However, this time, that hidden side of his brain won out.

“Well,” Aksel replied, a manic smile suddenly playing at his lips, “why didn't you say so? That's one of the most difficult potions in the world. I want to be a potioneer when I graduate; certainly you could've guessed that the ability to make Wolfsbane Potion would help my chances? That, and I’d never let Eirik Jensen outdo me.” He winked at Eirik, but no one seemed to notice.

Everyone goggled at him, but no one replied. It sounded insane, even to his own ears. All three of these people regarded him as a bigot and a liar (rightfully so, he might add). Why in the world would he help them? What was in it for him? Enjoying potions experiments wasn't nearly enough to cause him to do this.

“How about a new deal?” he continued. “You let me help you with the potion, and I won't tell a soul about your little… problem. Deal?”

The two Ravenclaws, still in shock as they sat on the floor, looked up at Ari Gunnarsson. The boy squared his jaw, looked right into Aksel’s eyes, and replied, seemingly in defeat, “fine. Fine, you can help us. But if anyone else finds out, then you're gone. Got it?”

Aksel smirked. “Got it.”

 

*******

_Three weeks later..._

Eirik knew he had a problem when he started dreaming about sky-blue eyes—and they weren't Berwald’s.

October had eased its way into November, and the Whomping Willow had whomped off its last rusty-brown leaves. Eirik had already taken to wearing woolen sweaters under his robes to keep out the autumn chill that raked its way through brittle bones and shaky trees, which both quavered in its wake.

And, Eirik could never forget, each day as the moon shifted, Ari was one day closer to guys second transformation.

Ari was still scratched up from his _first_ transformation, which he'd spent alone in the woods, apparently trying to attack anything that crossed his path. He'd been covered in blood when Eirik had found him. The boy still had scars on his back shaped like wretched claws. Ari had been exhausted.

But life wasn't all bad. Eirik had never expected to be friends with Aksel Andersen, but once they'd set their differences aside, they made a great team.

In fact, that was exactly the problem. See, Eirik had always been attracted to Aksel on some peripheral level; though they’d never gotten along, Eirik couldn’t deny that the boy was handsome. Now that he had no real reason to distrust him (though he’d been warned by Ari to stay wary), it was harder to keep that secret sort of thought under wraps. He’d tried—truly, honestly tried—at first, but after over a month of this, either the attractiveness of Aksel’s handsome face, his cunning wit, or some amortentia-laced combination of the two, had worn Eirik’s patience down. Berwald may have been great at potion-brewing, but Aksel was a master of the art, a boy with a steady hand and an intuitive chemical genius. Eirik had finally met his equal. The synergy between them was undeniable.

“Get away from the bloody potion _right now_ , Aksel,” Eirik scathed, elbowing the boy in the ribs.

Aksel hissed, wind effectively expelled from his lungs. “Why?” he managed to gasp, still holding a jar of pillaged emerald-colored beetle eyes. Eirik wasn’t sure if it was just the lighting, but for some reason, Aksel seemed paler than usual. His skin seemed almost grey and dead under the bright, ornate lights that hung from the ceiling.

But Eirik supposed that he’d been paying too much attention to Aksel’s appearance, anyhow. “What kind of future potioneer are you, you prat?” Eirik continued, voice deadpan and callous. “You can’t just toss those in! You need to crush those between two leaves from an enchanted valerian plant before you add them. Can’t you read?”

The two were experimenting with their potion in the one place where all of them (well, except Tino, technically) could meet in relative secrecy: the Prefects’ bathroom. Berwald was out studying with Tino—it was most certainly _not_ a date, Eirik had been told—, but Ari had figured that the spacious and ornate bathroom might be a quiet and relaxing place to study.

Clearly, he’d thought wrong, since his brother and Aksel simply could not cease bickering.

“No, actually, you only crush about half of them,” Aksel replied easily, as if there were simply some fine print that Eirik had just failed to notice (there wasn’t). “Complex and experimental potion, remember? The instructions here aren’t perfect, otherwise this would’ve been much simpler. I’ve been testing different methods.”

Ari looked up from his Charms textbook. He looked breathless and hazy, like he always did when a full moon drew closer. “And you’ve tested,” he rasped, then cleared his throat and started over. “You’ve tested the potion enough to tell that this is better?”

Aksel nodded, and he cleared his throat as well before speaking. “The potion gets closer to the correct color and, erm,” he made a squeezing sort of gesture with his hands, running a pale and shaky hand through his gelled hair, then his eyes lit up as he remembered the proper word: “… Consistency. Texture. It gets closer to the right texture when I only crush half of them, adding the whole beetle eyes first.”

Eirik raised an eyebrow at Aksel. Usually, Aksel spoke clearly and directly, cunning and eloquent as a Slytherin ought to be. He seemed almost ill, but then again, it was nearing winter. The cold weather might’ve done this to him.

That seemed like the best explanation, so Eirik ignored Aksel’s stumbling and his weak knees, relishing in Aksel’s creativity.

And therein lay Aksel’s genius, and the reason they complimented each other so well. Eirik was a theoretical and abstract thinker when he needed to be, but when he was reading a book, he tended to automatically trust every word he read. As a boy who took pride in wisdom, he respected the wisdom of those before him, and perhaps that would be his downfall. Damocles, though wise, had only invented this potion ten years ago, and had only successfully made it twice. One other wizard had managed the potion, but that was it. Not many wanted to make a potion for werewolves, and of those who did, there were few with the sort of knack for potions required to master Wolfsbane. The potion printed here was clearly faulty, and that was not surprising at all.

Luckily, Aksel was an experimenter. He was used to cutting corners for the sake of achieving his ends, well-adjusted to scratching away at the rules as they chafed. Aksel was so Slytherin in this sense that it almost hurt to watch him, jaw clenched in concentration as he poured approximately half his measuring spoon of beetle eyes into the potion (which turned a violet fuschia), then crushed the remainder between the valerian leaves and tossed them in—leaves and all. The potion bubbled as the eyes and leaves boiled down and melded with the concoction. The liquid within the cauldron flashed a pastel pink color, then sunk into a sullen night-blue. Aksel smirked weakly at Eirik, revealing a mouth full of slightly-crooked but perfectly white teeth. His skin shone with sweat, and he ran a damp hand over his damp face. It did little but push all the sweat to the hair on his temples.

Aksel shook his head, forced himself to regain his bravado. “See?” he retorted. “Navy-blue, just like the book said it should be. Now we just need to add the sheepskin-”

“The what?” Eirik shot back. Since last week, Aksel had clearly read up on this. Why, though? He understood that Aksel was competitive, but the hours of research he’d clearly done didn’t quite seem worth it.

“Sheepskin,” Aksel repeated, and the smile dropped, like it had been too much effort to keep up. “The other person who made the potion—Merlin’s pants, forgot his name—said that he experimented with wool and sheepskin during the final stages of his project. Apparently, the skin acts as a sedative to the wolf, substituting human flesh for an appropriate substitute, I think. You know, since sheep are natural prey to wolves. Anyhow, the wool helps detoxify the aconite, but we’ll pull it out after we’re done, since it doesn’t dissolve.”

This all still seemed very dodgy to Eirik, but since Aksel’s reasoning was sound (and since Aksel seemed a bit ill), he let it slide. “Fine, we’ll add it. You really ought to go see Madame Pomfrey after this, though. I think you’re coming down with something.”

“Yeah, feels like the flu,” Aksel replied dismissively, and he tossed in the sheepskin.

Sure enough, the potion reached a consistency much closer to that described in the spell than previous attempts had done. Eirik was excited enough that he missed the way Aksel started to scratch at his skin, as if it were itching below the surface. He missed the way Aksel’s voice went hoarse, his hands went clammy and slippery, and his knees grew weak and shaky.

However, sitting quietly in the corner, trying to focus on his essay for Charms, Ari noticed. And he recognized those exact symptoms slowly appearing in himself, as well.

 

*******

Ari suffered through Eirik’s depictions of Aksel Andersen’s prodigious potion-making all through lunch, and he’d nodded dutifully, trying his best not to reveal any of his suspicions. It wasn’t often that his brother praised someone, but when Eirik did, he went all out. Apparently, Aksel’s abilities had earned him Eirik’s praise. Ari was just trying his damnedest not to roll his eyes.

Immediately after his last class, Ari found Tino and told him.

“What do you mean, ‘Aksel Andersen is a werewolf’?” Tino cried out, and it echoed throughout the near-empty corridor. “How-”

“Shut up!” Ari hissed, covering Tino’s mouth with a pale and sweaty (but firm) hand.

Face contorting in disgust, Tino slapped the younger boy’s hand away, but he kept his voice down as he replied, “god, Ari, your hands are disgusting, keep them off my mouth. Now, maybe you could at least explain what you’re talking about? What do you mean?”

“I mean that I saw all the symptoms in him this afternoon,” Ari whispered anxiously. “The full moon is exactly one week from today, and there are mild sort of flu-like symptoms that seem to happen around now. Part of why Wolfsbane must be administered starting the week before, I guess. But, honestly, Tino, it was like I was looking in a mirror! His face went pale, then he broke into a cold sweat, then his voice got all raspy and he started clearing his throat every two seconds. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner: he’s only interested in helping us because he’s a werewolf! He knows he can’t figure it out without our help, so he’s taking advantage of us.”

“Wait, wait, back up,” Tino exclaimed before Ari’s rant could go any further. “Before you make any assumptions, let’s do some research to make sure this is even _possible.”_

Ari sighed. “Fine.”

*******

As it turned out, the four boys had already almost exhausted all the books on werewolves the library kept. Ari checked out two books for further independent reading ( _A Comprehensive History of Werewolves,_ and _A Wolf in Sheep’s Skin: Werewolves within the Wizarding World)_. It took over an hour to find anything useful, but then, Ari shot a derisive question in Tino’s direction: “Wait, why was there a werewolf out in the Forest, anyway? It says here that they pose a significant threat to any humans in the general vicinity if they’re not locked up. Why allow a werewolf on Hogwarts property? Is there something I’m missing?”

“Well,” Tino explained, “werewolves can smell and hunt out people from a couple hundred yards away. That werewolf definitely would have been a short run away from Hagrid’s Hut, if not the rest of Hogwarts. So, really, it would make no sense to keep werewolves in the Forbidden Forest. I don’t know, Ari.”

Ari shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

“Not only that,” he added, “but werewolves look and act like humans 27 days out of 28. There’s no way a werewolf would stay in the forest that whole time.”

Ari furrowed his brow. “So that means…”

“The werewolf probably doesn’t actually live there. More than likely, he or she stays somewhere else where there’s food and shelter. So, you’re right: it could be Aksel Andersen. Maybe he got bitten last summer or something.”

Regardless, both Tino and Ari agreed that there was no way students would be safe if there were werewolves in the Forbidden Forest, and they continued to express their disbelief in the popular rumour as they made their way down the hall to dinner.

“They can smell humans from over three hundred yards!” Ari declared. “It’s a wonder Hagrid’s still alive, if there are werewolves prowling around every full moon.”

Tino seemed just as furious at the notion, adding, “I know, right? And we can’t possibly be the first Hogwarts students out in the Forbidden Forest during a full moon, you know?”

“With how many detentions Leon’s served out there, I'm surprised _he’s_ not turning all furry and blood-thirsty once a month, honestly.”

The thought of other students being subject to his same fate sent shivers down Ari’s spine. He could picture it very clearly: some poor, unsuspecting first year in the woods with Hagrid serving detention. Perhaps, the first year would wander a bit too far off the path, and Hagrid would be just a bit too far away to help in an emergency… and suddenly, with nothing but a growl of warning, the werewolf would attack the little kid, leaving him either dead or as good as dead.

Ari was shaken from his thoughts by Tino, who nudged him in the arm. “Hey, Ari, you still with me? Maybe you should get some more sleep. Full moon soon, you know? You were just saying earlier that-”

“Tino, we should really speak to a teacher about this. There’s no way to make sure the werewolves stay where they belong, as far as we know, and it would really….” He trailed off, shaking his head to ward off the vivid image of an eleven year-old child being bitten whilst serving detention. “Merlin, I mean, don’t you think we should bring this to their attention? I think I might speak with Professor McGonagall about this.”

“Are you sure?” Tino asked. “She might wonder why you’re so interested, all of a sudden.”

Ari nodded, confident as he’d ever been. “It’s a risk I’ll have to take. How many other kids could get killed, doing exactly what we just did? I won’t be able to sleep at night if I don’t get answers.”

“That’s true. I can’t imagine….” His eyes suddenly went wide with shock. “Ari, there are children here.”

“Exactly! I’ll speak to her tomorrow after Transfiguration,” he decided, resolute. “No one deserves to go through this—not even Aksel Andersen.”

 

*******

Ari had never been so anxious to go to Transfiguration in his life. Beyond making small animals vanish, which was particularly fascinating on its own, Ari couldn't wait to finally get some answers. This werewolf conundrum baffled him more as he continued to think about it. What was a lone werewolf doing in the woods less than 500 yards from the school? Why would the staff allow this?

In fact, Ari’s theories were so distracting that he didn’t pay attention to the lesson at all, and Professor McGonagall seemed to notice, asking him a question out of the blue. Needless to say, had Ari’s friend Lilli from Ravenclaw not been there to whisper the answer in his ear, he would’ve made a fool of himself.

The tension was eating him alive. Beyond the constant, dull shock of _turning into a werewolf_ , Ari still didn’t quite know what was going to happen to him. But even before he laid out a sort of life plan, he would’ve liked to figure out how exactly this happened (since it should have been impossible).

Not a minute too soon, class was dismissed, and Ari let out a sigh of relief. Tino asked if perhaps they should see Professor Romulus or Professor Kettleburn about this instead, but Ari wouldn’t hear it. McGonagall was his favorite teacher, and he wouldn’t trust anyone else as much as her. He told his friends not to wait up for him as they headed off to Herbology, and strode up to her desk as confidently as he could.

“Mr. Gunnarsson?” Professor McGonagall asked, and if she was surprised to see him, she didn’t let it show. “Feeling better? You seemed unfocused today, and Mr. Wang informed me that you’ve been feeling ill lately. Just a cold?”

Glad that he had an easy excuse, Ari nodded. “Yes, I’ve caught a cold, but I’m alright for now, thanks. Actually, I had a question about something else.”

“Yes?”

“Well, see…” Ari coughed into his hand, recalling the lines he’d rehearsed in his head. “You know those rumours about werewolves in the Forbidden Forest, right?”

“I do.”

Ari continued. “See, I was studying werewolves the other day for Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I read that the average werewolf could scent a human from hundreds of yards away in wolf form, and that the only way to keep one safe was using securely-locked doors with magical enforcements.”

“That’s true. And your question was?”

“Well, if there really were werewolves in the Forbidden Forest,” Ari explained, “they would be a danger to the school, since they can smell humans. Beyond that, if a werewolf was in the Forbidden Forest, he or she would have to find ways to live as a human there most of the time. Wouldn’t it be impractical for werewolves to hide there?”

Professor McGonagall made to glance around, making sure there were no other students about. Then voice lowered, she answered, “clearly you’ve put quite a bit of thought into this. Let me put your mind at ease: there are no werewolves in the Forbidden Forest. There never have been, and there never will be. The one werewolf that ever attended Hogwarts stayed in the Shrieking Shack during his transformations.”

Ari took a moment to let all that sink in. This meant that if there was a werewolf here, then none of the staff knew about it. This also meant that it had been done before: a werewolf could attend Hogwarts without posing a threat to the students.

That was a relief, at the very least. Perhaps he should just tell her? Though, then Ari would be forced into admitting that he had been trespassing in the Forest at night.

Maybe later, then.

“Thank you for telling me.” Ari replied, conspicuously casual. “Weight off my chest, really. Does this mean that the werewolf transformed in a haunted house, then?”

McGonagall raised a suspicious eyebrow, but gave him his answer nonetheless. “The house wasn’t haunted. The shrieks were from the werewolf himself. Now, is that all? You really ought to get to Herbology.”

“That’s all, thank you,” Ari said, and he turned on his feet to leave.

But before he made it out the door, Professor McGonagall called out, “oh, and Ari?”

Ari turned to meet her gaze. “Yes?”

She met his eyes with a stern glare. “Mind you, this does not mean that the Forbidden Forest is not dangerous. There are many creatures out there that would eat you whole. Understood?”

Ari winced. “Understood.”

Yes, that was clear. And now that the pieces had clicked into place, the story was transparent as air.

Aksel Andersen was a werewolf. Ari had been bitten by Aksel on that night.

 

*******

_December 1_ _st_ _, 1987 - Professor Flitwick's Classroom, Hogwarts; 4:36PM_

Eirik wasn’t a romantic. He wasn’t a sap, he wasn’t a drama queen, and he wasn’t the type to ask a boy out because of some poorly-hidden mutual attraction.

It wasn’t even that Aksel was different from other boys—that would’ve made it easier not to ask him, actually, because Aksel being ‘different’ sounded silly.

It just… seemed like the right thing to do. It was natural, organic. It made sense. Their personalities blended and clashed in all the right ways, hot and cold at odds with each other like a raging mother dragon and a sly, conniving sea serpent.

They were explosive. Eirik loved it.

Not only that, but after a brief tryst with Francis Bonnefoy back in fourth year, everyone knew that Aksel was about as straight as Dumbledore (that is to say, not straight at all). Which meant that Eirik had a shot at not looking stupid if he dared to ask Aksel out on a date. Which was encouraging.

At least, that’s what he tried to remind himself as he watched Aksel showing off his nonverbal _wingardium leviosa_ in Advanced Charms. He was levitating a textbook a few feet off the ground, and he was biting his chapped lower lip in concentration.

“Hey, Aksel?” Eirik asked, conversationally. After sitting next to each other for two months, their complex friendship had faded from the gossip of the week to normalcy. Left in relative peace, having already mastered today’s charm, Eirik felt that this might be a good time to speak to Aksel about… whatever it was that they shared.

Aksel lowered his wand. His textbook hit the ground with a loud thud, but it was drowned out by the buzzing background chatter. He turned to Eirik, blue eyes shining. “Yes?”

Eirik suddenly felt as though his robes were too confining, fabric rubbing against the hairs on his arms and making his skin crawl. “I’ve got a question,” he mumbled, then cleared his throat and continued, speaking as clearly and serenely as he could. “See, there’s a Hogsmeade Weekend this Saturday, and, well….” He looked at Aksel’s face, and saw—not hope or excitement—but bemused, furrowed brows and a slight frown. He almost looked… disappointed? But Eirik had already started talking, and it was too late now. He pressed on. “I know you’re interested in men, and I am too. I was wondering if-”

But Aksel cut him off. “Eirik?” He let out a sigh, and his eyes suddenly looked so tragically sad that dread shot down Eirik’s spine.

He shivered. “What?”

And, slowly and sadly, Aksel shook his head. “I can’t. It’s- look, you’re a great guy, Eirik. I’m definitely interested, but….” He sighed again, then finished his sentence: “would it sound too cliché if I said ‘it’s not you, it’s me?’”

“Yes,” Eirik retorted flatly, worried that if he let any emotion creep into his voice, then he would embarrass or incriminate himself somehow. He scoffed, because that was easier than blushing or crying or yelling. “Is this because of your parents? Is this because of what happened to Berwald? Because-”

“It’s not, promise!” Aksel insisted, triple-blinking as if to stave off tears. “If I were worried about my parents, why would I even be talking to you? Trust me, in their eyes, even speaking with Berwald is good enough for banishment. I’ve already incriminated myself. Why would I care about that?”

Eirik bit his lip, and thoughts he’d buried over a year ago bubbled up to the surface. “Well, it was Berwald’s, er, _affair_ that really did it,” he murmured, cheeks tinged pink.

Aksel shrugged. “It was coming either way. And I’d like to think it’d be more than an _affair_ , if you were planning on taking me out on a nice date first.” At this, he actually managed a smile, but it faded just as quickly as it came. It was replaced by a grimace. “You and Berwald were just messing around, I thought. Right?”

“Yes, we were. We’re not- no!” Eirik spluttered, and he could feel his already-burning cheeks grow even warmer. “His heart’s set on Tino. We’re just friends. And we don’t- I mean, well- that was a one-time thing. We didn’t even do much! We just made out and, well, word got out.”

Aksel seemed to consider this for a moment, nodding perhaps involuntarily. Then, he looked Eirik in the eye. “And me?”

The question startled Eirik. He’d put a bit of thought into this, but not enough to string the words together (he was, after all, a teenager. Deep thinking and romance didn’t work well together for teenagers). “You?” he iterated, and Aksel grunted in confirmation.

“Well,” Eirik continued, sounding uncertain even to his own ears but trying to look confident, “you’re intriguing. I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface. I don’t know how you managed to play the ‘mysterious’ card better than me, but you certainly pull it off.”

It had all come out wrong, awkward and stupid-sounding, like Eirik was speaking through molasses while he was drunk. Aksel seemed not to notice or care, though, and gave him a dark look. “You really don’t want to know all my secrets. Trust me.”

And, suddenly, Eirik was furious. Bigoted parents, he could understand. Selfish desires? Definitely. Aksel was a selfish person; that made sense. But a deep, dark secret? That alone could keep Eirik from ever having a chance? He didn’t see how it could be relevant, and if—somehow—it was, then Eirik felt that he deserved an explanation. If Aksel had a secret, and it involved _him_ , Eirik felt like he should know.

“Is this it, then?” he shot back, all red faded from his cheeks, and all drunken love gone from his eyes, replaced with ice. “You have some skeleton in your closet that’s banned you from going on dates?”

The bell rang, and Aksel slung his knapsack over one shoulder. “Yeah,” he replied, dejected, as he turned to leave. “Something like that.”


	6. Valerian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so late. I've honestly torn apart this ending so many times, and I'm still not happy with it, but... well, it's been a month. I might add an epilogue, just so I can end the story with *all* of the Nordics and not just two.
> 
> Art once again by Ro! Check out her art blog, @artofthero, it's pretty amazing!
> 
> Thank you all for being so patient <3

_December 1st, 1987 - Professor Flitwick's Classroom, Hogwarts; 4:36PM_

Christmas was coming, and Aksel Andersen had never felt more lonely. Logically, he told himself, there was no real reason to feel lonely. He was in the same place he'd been a few months ago—a popular Slytherin kid with plenty of friends—, and since he'd rectified his relationship with Berwald and continued to help Ari out, he realized that _really,_ he should be on top of the world.

But no. Ever since that conversation with Eirik all those weeks ago, he'd felt disconnected from everything.

Numb. Cold. Isolated.

He was in such a rotten mood that even the weather seemed affected, turning bitterly cold as winter drew nearer. Hogwarts was plagued with freezing rain, which rendered the ground slushy during the day and icy at night. On a full moon in the beginning of December, Aksel had almost given himself away when he'd slipped on a frozen puddle just outside the Forest.

He and Eirik still spoke tersely as they tried to mix the potion, but their dialogue wasn't nearly so productive as it had been. In the end, it was Tino, not the two potioneers, who had accidentally happened upon a Wolfsbane discovery.

It was two weeks after the Full, and midterms were getting dangerously close. Berwald and Eirik were busy with Advanced Transfiguration homework (McGonagall’s midterm was storytelling supposed to be incredibly difficult), Ari was stressing over OWLs as usual. That left Tino to help Aksel with the potion that evening, and things didn't seem to promising. Since Tino wasn't a Prefect, Aksel had had to break Tino into the Prefects’ restroom late at night, and he'd already been forced to bribe Lien Chung into silence when she'd caught them.

Aksel had taken control of the brewing that evening since Tino claimed he was awful at potions, but the potion wasn't exactly a one-wizard job. While Aksel's took control of the more difficult steps and the experimentation, Tino was content with being relegated to simple steps such as adding pre-prepared ingredients and stirring counterclockwise for precisely two minutes and forty-one seconds.

When Tino had stopped stirring ten seconds early, Aksel had immediately assumed that the potion was a bust. He'd heaved a great sigh, Tino had apologized , and Aksel had abandoned his beetle eye-crushing to walk over to the cauldron and throw it out.

And then he saw it: the potion was perfect. The consistency wasn’t too thick like he's assumed it would be, and its color was a perfect regal purple. “Tino,” he exclaimed, “I think you've done it!”

And half an hour later, Aksel and Tino left a seemingly perfect Wolfsbane potion in the restroom to simmer, every ingredient added and every direction followed.

 _And exactly a week before the next full moon as well,_ thought Aksel, smirking to himself as he snuck back down to the Slytherin common room.

Things were finally looking up.

 

*******

Looking up, of course, until everything hit rock bottom not three hours later.

“Aksel, what are you doing here?” Ari asked as he entered the Prefects’ bathroom at half past two in the morning. “Eirik saw you lurking while I was on duty, and we both decided to see what was up. We'd usually ignore it, but you told Tino that the potion was not to be disturbed, so either you lied to him, or you're sabotaging the potion. And what's that phial for?” He seemed to realize that he was rambling, and cut himself off as he moved to let his older brother in.

Aksel had just been leaving, and had he realized how close he'd been to getting caught, he might have hurried. “Testing,” he replied dumbly, because it technically wasn't a lie. His eyes met Eirik's with a wavering glare as the boy strutted primly into the bathroom, and Aksel was certain in that moment that he'd been figured out just from the cold look in Eirik's eyes. “Just testing,” he repeated, like that would help.

Ari deadpanned. “Testing.”

“Yes, testing,” Aksel said again, and if it didn't sound stupid enough the first three times, it certainly did now. He blithered on. “You know, to make sure it works. I was going to bring it back to the dungeon so I could experiment.”

“Oh, really?” Ari rolled his eyes, snatching the phial from Aksel and putting it in his pocket. “And you need to bring it all the way back to the dungeon for what reason? Were you planning on selling me out, or is there something you're hiding?”

Biting his lip for confidence, Aksel met Ari’s gaze, looking deep into those sceptical violet eyes. “I couldn't sleep,” he started flatly, “and I wouldn't have had time tomorrow.”

Ari raised an eyebrow.

Aksel’s glare wavered. “That's it!” he added, fists clenched at his sides. “That's all I was doing!”

“Oh, of course, Aksel, the look in your eye says all I need to know,” Ari declared with an accusatory note. He let out a short laugh, but then deadpanned as he continued, tone softer and more serious. “Honestly, you really ought to tell us what's up. I've suspected you for a while, now. You've been sneaking around, and-”

Eirik held up a hand to stop his brother. “No, Aksel always sneaks out when he has insomnia. That's not so suspicious.”

“See?” Aksel gushed, his whole body suddenly relaxing as if Eirik’s excuse was a great relief. “Completely normal. Eirik can vouch for me.”

“I never said that,” Eirik shot back, voice icy and deaf to sympathy. “Andersen, you _do_ realize that this potion can only be tested on werewolf blood, don't you?”

It was back to ‘Andersen’ again—of course it was; Eirik had figured out his secret. Why has Andersen even tried to hide it, when the brightest wizard in his year was on his case?

Aksel shuddered, kept his eyes turned downward the tile floor. “Yes,” he said as softly as he could.

Eirik cleared his throat and continued dryly.  “And surely this means that you've conjured some werewolf blood for your test?”

Aksel rubbed the back of his neck. His skin was completely flushed. All he could manage was, “Eirik, please,” before his voice cracked. Biting his lip again (a chapped bit of skin was peeling off under his left incisor), he lifted his head, figuring he would have to face reality at some point.

And, of course, now that Aksel had finally worked up the nerve to look at Eirik, the boy was looking at him like he meant murder. “Oh, and the fact that you get sick after every full moon is surely a coincidence, isn't it?”

Aksel tried to bite his lip again, but with the peeling bit of skin gone, it was more painful than therapeutic. “Eirik, I-”

And that’s when Ari decided to butt in. “Honestly, Aksel, I just can't believe that _you’re_ the werewolf!”

“Ari, I’m sorry, just please don’t…” Aksel didn’t even know how to finish that sentence. Words were even more difficult, now that he was facing the very boy he’d turned.

“Don’t what?” He crossed his arms over his chest, weight shifted to one leg for maximum sass levels. “You want me to just pretend you’re not _most definitely_ a werewolf? And it’s not like you were being subtle. Aren’t you Slytherins supposed to be cunning and witty?”

Aksel raised an eyebrow, sparing a final glance at Eirik (who looked too shocked for words) before turning back to Ari. “You’re acting awfully calm, all things considering.”

Ari shrugged, as if this lycanthropy business was no more substantial than a petty hex. “Hey, you might be the only person in this school who understands me, and vice versa.”

Eirik looked like he was going to interrupt, but Ari cut him off. “It's not like you can control your wolf form. You didn't turn me on purpose, and as hotheaded as I am, I'm not really one for grudges. I might have been angry right afterward, but at this point? I'm more curious than anything else, really.”

“Seriously?” Aksel shot back, incredulous.

“Well, Tino and I had already been suspecting it for over a month, anyway,” Ari tacked on sheepishly. “Sure, I'm a bit bothered that you joined us for selfish reasons, but it’s not like you haven’t been helpful to us.”

And although Aksel hadn't been able to believe him up until this point, the genuine smile on Ari's face told him everything he needed to know. The pent-up guilt Aksel had been holding on to for months finally faded to the background. He felt alive. Free. Real.

“No.” Eirik's voice was frostbitten and scathing, like a late spring cold snap that killed newly-bloomed flowers. Aksel didn't dare turn to meet his gaze, but he was sure Eirik's glare was just as unforgiving. “That doesn't mean anything,” he continued after a beat. “Why didn’t you tell us? I- _we_ put our trust in you.”

Ari rolled his eyes. “Eirik-”

“No, he’s right, Ari,” Aksel sighed, waving a dismissive hand in the boy's direction. “I should have told you all. I was being dishonest. Eirik, honestly, if there’s anything I can-”

But Eirik wouldn't hear it. “Get away from me, _werewolf._ I think you’ve done enough already.”

And Aksel, self-deprecating idiot that he was, didn't argue.

So, naturally, Ari has no choice when he retorted, “Eirik, leave him alone! Just because Aksel was being a prat, doesn’t mean that you-”

“Leave it, Ari. I can’t believe you,” Eirik sneered, nose wrinkling a bit like a pig’s snout. Aksel couldn't decide whether that was intimidating, laughable, or charming, but he was leaning toward the latter. “You let me trust you while you were going behind my back, you made me think that I might have been interested in you. I- God!” He cut himself off, fuming, then in a scarily calm and low voice, gave his ultimatum: “get away from me, Aksel Andersen, or I swear I'll avada kedavra your stupid arse.”

“If you’d just let me explain….” Aksel trailed off. It was pointless.

“You're the one who turned Ari. I can't believe you turned my _brother_ into a _werewolf!”_

“I had no control over my actions!” Aksel shot back. “No werewolf _does_ over the full moon unless they've had Wolfsbane Potion! Eirik, have you ever heard of Fenrir Greyback?”

Eirik seemed confused, but Ari nodded. “The infamous werewolf that turns children into werewolves for fun? Yes.”

“Last summer, I was visiting Amsterdam with Jan…. It was him—Greyback, he turned me. I've only been a werewolf for four moons, I barely even know what to make of this, and- Merlin, you do realize that if anyone else finds out about this, that's the end, right? Hogwarts, my parents, my friends… I'll lose everything. I know it will happen at some point, if not yet. Just please, I don't expect you to understand, or care about me, or even pretend to be my friends anymore, but don't tell anyone. Please, I beg of you. I'll never be able to make any of this up to you, so just let me live the lie a little longer.”

Eirik blinked a few times in disbelief, as if Aksel was being completely ridiculous. Now that his anger had bubbled over, Eirik bridled his emotions, keeping his rage contained within simmering passive-aggression. He leveled Aksel with a calculatedly blank stare. “I owe you nothing. You ruined my brother's life.”

Aksel nodded.

“I'm telling Tino and Berwald,” he added. “And Aksel, you better pray to God that McGonagall doesn't know by morning, because she won't hesitate to expel you. I can't believe you'd risk the entire school's safety just because of your pride.”

With that, Eirik strutted out of the Prefects’ bathroom, door shutting gracefully behind him.

 

*******

“So, m’ brother’s a werewolf.” Berwald said the words plainly, without inflection, mumbling as he always did. There was no anger (which was good), but no sympathy, either, which made him nigh impossible to read.

Aksel settled for a calculated, sassy response. “The first time you call me your brother in over a year, and it’s after I break your best friend’s heart?” he asked, trying to sound cocky. Unfortunately, the depression he was feeling had washed over him so completely that he just sounded bitter and jaded. “Poor timing, Berwald. I expected better from you.”

“Should’ve told us,” Berwald continued. “We wouldn’t’ve judged.”

And oh, did that sting Aksel deep inside. He couldn’t reply to that, not without breaking down, so he diverted instead. “How did you get into the Slytherin common room, anyway?”

“Ari told me th’ password.”

Yes, that cleared _everything_ up. He could never quite tell whether Berwald was always purposefully vague or if that was just the way he spoke.

Aksel tried again. “How does Ari know the password to the Slytherin common room?”

“Said he had connections.”

“Of course he does, he’s Ari Gunnarsson,” Aksel replied with a derisive snort.

Berwald didn’t say anything after that, but that was excusable. It was two in the morning, Aksel was tired, and his brother must have been tired as well under that gruff exterior. The water outside sloshed peacefully, soulless black pierced only by the nearly full, waxing-gibbous moon.

After a minute or two, Aksel sighed, unable to take the silence any longer. “You wanted to chew me out, I’m guessing? You’re just holding back? Go ahead. I deserve it.”

Berwald shook his head. “No, jus’ wanted t’see how you were holding up. Y’know, Tino’s parents got a nice guest room. Y’could room with me over Christmas. There’s no way Father’ll wanna see you again once he finds out. Hell, ya could probably just stay all summer.”

Aksel was shocked. Since when was Berwald so generous? (The answer was always, and Aksel knew it, but it had never really come into focus from his peripheral until that moment). “But I wouldn’t want to subject Tino’s parents to a rabid wolf once a month!” he shot back anxiously. “His mum’s a muggle, there’s no way she’d take that well. And I definitely don’t want to scare them off, since you still want to marry Tino someday and all that, you know?”

“Y’ gotta stay somewhere, though,” his brother pointed out, ever the logical one. “Standing offer. Väinämöinens won’t mind. Y’ can figure it out later. How y’ holding up?”

The change of topic was sudden, but Aksel assumed that Berwald had just noticed the bemusement that must have been written all over his face. “I broke his heart, didn't I? He thinks I’m a monster now.”

“Give him a week, he'll come around. 'S that why ya wouldn't go with him? I see the way y’look at him. Same way I-”

“Look at Tino, I know.” Aksel knew, of course, because he could see it in both our nearly-identical eyes. Both brothers got the same, dopey sort of look whenever they looked at someone they loved deeply. Aksel let out a disgruntled growl. As the pieces clicked into place, he realized just how poorly he’d explained himself, even before he’d revealed his secret. “I didn't know what to do. I still don't. I could suppress it back in third year, when I'd just make fun of him, but now? After I got to know him? I can't ignore it, and I didn't want to let him down. I turned his brother into a werewolf! How do you make up for that? I couldn't tell him. I just couldn't.”

“Eirik could’ve taken it. He’s more accepting than you are,” Berwald stated, and now it seemed obvious. Eirik’s _brother_ was a werewolf. Surely Eirik would figure out that Aksel couldn’t control the wolf when he turned any better than Ari could, that this was all just happenstance.

“More accepting than me? That’s a low bar,” Aksel replied, grasping helplessly at straws.

“Not lately, apparently. Wonder how much your _furry little problem_ changed ya.” There was a glint in Berwald’s eye, which made it seem a bit like he was staring into my very soul.

 _Knowing Berwald, he probably is,_ Aksel thought sullenly. “Heh,” he coughed, running a hand through his unkempt hair, which only made it crazier. “I was such a jerk to you. I was such a jerk to all of you, and I didn't want to be, but-”

For what must have been the first time in his life, Berwald interrupted. “Aksel, we don't get along, 'n we’re not close, but I know you're a good person. Y’don't need to prove yourself t’me. And give Eirik a couple weeks; he'll be fine. It'll all work out. Not everyone's as awful as Father.”

And it was those words that echoed in Aksel’s head all night as he tossed and turned, inches from unattainable sleep.

 _Not everyone’s as awful as Father,_ Aksel would whisper to himself ad nauseam. _Not everyone’s as awful as Father._

 

*******

In fact, it only took a day for Eirik to come around, sneaking behind Aksel as they made their way to the Room of Requirement. Eirik waited there a couple minutes before entering. In his head, he rationalized that it was to make this seem like an event half of happenstance, half of brilliant intuition; but, in actuality, Eirik knew that he was just nervous.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from maintaining his composure as he walked into the room, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

Even after Eirik cleared his throat loudly and conspicuously as he could without feeling ridiculous, Aksel didn’t look at him. Rather, his eyes were transfixed upon an ornate mirror directly in front of him. In the dim orange light (there was a single candle in the corner) Eirik could see Aksel’s large, calloused hand reaching out to stroke the glass in front of him. With a shiver, Eirik realized that Aksel was looking into the Mirror of Erised, the mirror that Dumbledore had hidden in this room many years ago.

Well, Eirik wasn’t about to let Aksel play Narcissus in the Room of Requirement forever. He cleared his throat again, allowing himself to feel a little ridiculous, and cried, “Aksel! Look away from the mirror!”

Aksel started, shaking his head as if to stave off the fantasies flooding his mind. His eyelashes fluttered as he blinked off the delusions, and then he focused his gaze on the stone floor. “Aren't you supposed to be keeping watch?" was all he said, without greeting or gratitude. Everything about the line was disappointing, from the carefully guarded tone he put upon his words to the dejected sigh he tacked on both ends of his question as though he wanted to show Eirik just how depressed he was.

Well, if Aksel wanted sympathy, he wasn’t going to get it from Eirik—well, not yet, at least. He was still frustrated, and he couldn’t believe that Aksel had snuck out at night just to look at a damn mirror. “I _am_ keeping watch,” Eirik replied snootily, “ and unfortunately, I can't take points away from the student I just caught poking around the Room of Requirement. If only you had the brains for Ravenclaw."

“Oh, shut it,” he groused, fingers running through his spiky hair. It was unwashed, Eirik noticed, growing greasy at the roots. That didn’t stop Aksel from shoving his hand nails-deep to the hair that lined his scalp as he continued. “I don't think this stupid mirror works, anyway."

Now, Eirik knew the dangers of the Mirror of Erised, but his fears weren’t so urgent that he couldn’t chance a glance at it. He saw, as he’d expected, himself as a great potioneer, friends and family at his side. No one was a werewolf, and everyone was smiling. “Well,” he scoffed, “that certainly explains why I don't see Snape’s dead body in it."

“Morbid little mudblood," Aksel mused. His lips were still pursed into an unhappy moue, but his eyes were amused and creased at the corners in a half-smile.  
Eirik laughed, glad to have someone to distract him from the mirror in front of him (for it truly was addictive).  “Guilty as charged."  
And just like that, Aksel’s smile was gone. “I don't understand. Aren't you supposed to be angry with me? Or at least be a bit offended that I called you a mudblood?"

“Honestly? I don't care if you call me a mudblood."

“You seem to get offended when the other Slytherins mock you, and I’ve treated you worse than the lot of them.” Aksel looked like he wanted to say more, but his voice wavered almost tearfully. Eirik really hoped that Aksel wasn’t about to cry. That would be sad.

“Please, Andersen,” he replied teasingly, playfully enunciating Aksel’s last name.

Aksel didn’t seem to enjoy the jab, and Eirik decided that he was officially sick of the boy’s pouting. “Aksel, really, who do you think you're fooling?” he asked with a frustrated growl. From that point, the words spewed from his mouth like vomit. “You're not evil, and you're not a bully, and you only act like an arse so you can keep pushing me away. Now _grow a damn spine, would you?!_ The jig is up, I know you too well to believe that terrible facade you keep putting on for me. I know you wouldn't turn Ari into a werewolf on purpose. You did the best you could with what you had, and it was just as much Berwald's and my fault for forcing him to go out into the woods that night to begin with. I’m not cross, I just want you to be honest with me, and I want you to be honest with yourself!"

He would’ve gone on, but now Aksel really was tearing up. “You were-” he sniffed, scrubbing at his face. He laughed bitterly. “Eirik, you were furious with me not a day ago."  
“I was being impulsive. My brother got hurt, and you hurt him. I was angry (still am), and I took it out on the one person it made sense to blame this all on.” He saw Aksel biting his lip, and backtracked. “But it's not like you chose to bite him, Aksel! Even if you did have selfish motives, you've been helping Ari ever since. This isn’t your fault.”

Aksel snorted.

Eirik rolled his eyes, drawing near enough to grab Aksel’s hands. “You've more than redeemed yourself. I should never have beaten you up over it, and you shouldn't either."

“It _was_ my fault, though,” he argued, gripping Eirik’s hands tight enough that Eirik’s veins started to buzz. “I sacrificed everyone else's safety for my own pride. I guess that was pretty Slytherin of me."

“For the record, Aksel? You are literally the worst Slytherin ever. I've seen you, and talked to you, and you may have the cunning of a Slytherin, but you don’t even seem to enjoy using it. Hell, you're not even that ambitious. You walk around with your nose in the air, but anyone with eyes can see that your hands are shaking.” He let Aksel’s hands go, then turned them over so Aksel could see how they were trembling. “You're too compassionate to pull it off, and you know it."

“You remember when you asked me out?When I said you didn't know me at all?” Aksel blurted, reminding Eirik of nothing so much as a bursting dam.

Eirik raised an eyebrow.

“I was wrong. I was so, so wrong. Suppose I'm more of an open book than I thought."

“No, I'm just particularly astute.”

And no one could find a good way to continue that stream of thought, so they left it there for a moment. Aksel let his hands go limp as Eirik continued to hold them, mindlessly massaging the joints.

“Hey, Aksel?" Eirik said after awhile, casual and conversational.

 

“Yes?" Aksel replied.

Eirik glanced up at the mirror, then back at Aksel. Neither had really noticed until now, but they’d slowly sunk to the floor, kneeling next to each other with the mirror standing ominously above them. “What do you see in the mirror?"

“My family. We’re happy. Berwald's there as well with Tino. Maybe he's a pureblood in it so my father won’t have a conniption at the sight of him, I don't know. And…." He trailed off, likely deep in thought.

“And?" Eirik prompted, curious.

Aksel smiled. It was genuine, and Eirik could see it from his eyes to his lips. “You're there, too. Holding my hand."

“And am I a pureblood as well in your reflection?" Eirik asked.

At this, Aksel let out a real laugh, one that erupted from his stomach and shook his shoulders. “I don't think anything could make you a pureblood,” he decided, wiping tears (happy tears, Eirik reminded himself) from his eyes. “Too proud of your muggle-ness, really."

Eirik rested his head on Aksel’s shoulder. “You're such a sap."

“Yes, I am,” Aksel agreed. He shifted under Eirik, laying his long legs out in front of him and sighing contentedly. He gently rested his chin on Eirik’s head. “Look, about the things you said to me before this mess: it really, truly wasn't because you’re muggle-born.”

“Really?” Eirik asked, leaning into Aksel’s neck, putting a hand on the boy’s thigh. “What about your family?”

“My mum won't mind. Father will, but he hasn't ever really loved me anyway. I've spent so long trying to prove myself to him…. I'm tired,” he said. His voice had grown raspy from exhaustion, and Eirik thought he sounded like an odd cross between Berwald and Dumbledore. “He’s awful, and I'm done trying to please him. I'd already made up my mind by then that, if I fell in love a muggle-born, I wouldn’t let my father stop me from acting on it.”

Eirik frowned. “What was it then?”

“Eirik, I’m a werewolf. You don't want to be with a werewolf.”

“Well, that's a load of flobberworm dung,” Eirik retorted. His grip on Aksel’s thigh tightened protectively. He lifted his head from Aksel’s shoulder so they were at eye-level with each other. “My brother is a werewolf, why shouldn't my boyfriend be one as well?”

“I guess that makes sense,” Aksel decided, but he looked distracted. His eyes weren’t looking at Eirik’s eyes, but at his… lips. “So,” he said.

“So?” Eirik repeated, smirking.

Aksel leaned in so their noses were touching, then whispered, as if he was worried the mirror was eavesdropping, “do you want to try this boyfriend thing again?”

“Sure,” Eirik replied as he leaned in, “why not?”

And then their lips met.

Aksel Andersen was a pureblood. He was a Slytherin. He was the top of his class, the most talented wizard of his age, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. He’d heard it all.

Old and snobbish wizards from ancient and respectable houses had showered him with compliments his entire life, and Aksel had heard it all. He had his father’s handsome face, his mother’s wild hair. His father’s interest in dark magic, his mother’s affinity for complex spellwork and potions.

Wizards like Aksel Andersen were not supposed to be gay, mudblood-dating, werewolves.

But, then again, wizards like Ari Gunnarsson—Gryffindor prefects with all their wits about them—weren’t really meant to be werewolves, either.

No one was really meant to be a werewolf. No one woke up the morning after a full moon, content and happy in their lycanthropy. It wasn’t a fair fate for anyone.

But as Aksel kissed Eirik, all he could think about was how happy he was right then, how happy he would be when they figured out the potion, how happy he would be on their date tomorrow.

And that was more important, he thought, than bickering over what was fair.


End file.
